


all the roads we have to walk

by stillscape



Series: for the life of me [3]
Category: Archie Comics & Related Fandoms, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Pre-Series, Prequel, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2018-11-28 22:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 104,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11427165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillscape/pseuds/stillscape
Summary: There were a lot of things Betty expected to happen during her summer internship away from Riverdale. She expected to learn the ins and outs of publishing. She expected to make connections. She expected to return to Riverdale a new and improved Elizabeth Cooper, one who would be better than perfect because she wouldn't care about perfection.She didn't expect Polly would be sent away. She didn't expect to be solving a murder. And she didn't expect that one of her fellow interns would be an old friend with a gray beanie.(A canon-divergent AU that picks up from chapter 5 offor the life of me/ the summer before S1 and is now continuing into the school year.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [all the roads we have to walk](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15661371) by [Elrie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elrie/pseuds/Elrie)



> This is the CANON DIVERGENT continuation of [for the life of me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11082798/chapters/24721368), which I **very strongly recommend reading first**. If you choose not to, I think this story will still be comprehensible--but the first part is the first part, so you should read it first, you know?
> 
> Diaphenia is a glittery miniskirted cocktail dress. 
> 
> Also, this is more or less where I intended the fic to start in the first place! And then I decided to do a little character work to set the scene, and wrote 30,000 words!

Betty’s euphoria over her upcoming internship lasts precisely until the moment she starts trying to pack for it, and discovers that every single item of clothing she owns is wrong. Three-quarters of her wardrobe is too warm for summer, and the remaining quarter doesn’t fit right. Most of what she owns seems too casual, or too tomboyish, and a lot of her nicer clothes make her look ten years old.

(Does the nickname “Betty” make her _sound_ ten years old? Or—this is also a possibility—does it make her sound sixty? Should she try going by Beth, Liz, Eliza? Elizabeth?)

So far, she has packed two pairs of jeans, two pairs of pajamas, and eighteen pairs of socks. She’d hoped Polly would help her make decisions, but that isn’t working out since the best-left-unmentioned junior prom debacle. Instead, she’s called in the cavalry. 

The cavalry is currently destroying her bedroom.

Kevin holds up a cotton dress that he’s dug out of the back of Betty’s closet. “What’s wrong with this? It’s still cute.”

“It doesn’t zip over my chest anymore.” Betty feels her cheeks get a little pink. She’s been looking at herself resolutely in the mirror every single day since her disastrous River Vixens audition, but it’s taken the impartial evidence of trying on last summer’s clothes for her to grasp how much her body has changed in the last year.

Something khaki flies through the air and lands on her bed. “These shorts?”

“Too big in the waist and too small in the hips.”

“And this skirt?”

“I think it’s too short.”

“Try it on,” Kevin orders. He turns away, not that it matters, while she changes into it and stretches her fingertips down towards, and then well past, the hem. 

“See,” she says. “It’s way too far above my knees.”

“That’s exactly why you _should_ wear it.”

“I don’t know,” she says doubtfully, looking in the mirror, at which point Kevin declares defeat.

“Fine.” He throws up his hands. “Be that way. Keep dressing like a permanent tribute to the 2012 J. Crew Easter collection.”

Betty scowls at him, but internally admits that he may have a point. 

The next day, they end up at the Greendale mall, where Kevin over-embraces his role as personal shopper and makes it a point to have her try on what seems like hundreds of garments she would never, ever wear in public even if they were appropriate for her internship.

Most of them are not appropriate for her internship.

Tight miniskirts. Cocktail dresses. Sequins. Crop tops and short shorts and even an extremely flowy, boho-chic maxi dress. The saleslady won’t let Kevin in the dressing room, so Betty has to keep walking in and out, feeling increasingly uncomfortable as she parades back and forth in all the different outfits and the white cotton socks she refuses to take off because dressing room floors are gross.

Kevin keeps insisting she can pull off anything she wants, but Betty isn’t sure; her brain just keeps throwing up a big fat “I don’t know.” On some level, she understands that Kevin’s right. The girl in the mirror looks at least okay in everything from the neck down, and even _really_ good in some things. But only from the neck down. From the neck up, the girl in the mirror looks uncomfortable.

The other problem is, Betty’s not sure who the girl in the mirror is, or whether that’s the girl she wants to be.

(And anyway, that girl is definitely not heading to a prestigious publishing internship.)

“What is the point of this? I can’t wear this in an office,” Betty whines. At this moment, she is clad in in a cocktail dress with a tight miniskirt _and_ clusters of sequins. The fabric is a dark pinkish-purple and Betty is not entirely sure she isn’t dressed as a sexy raspberry. 

“You said there might be parties. And you said you wanted a different look.” Kevin twirls an index finger, indicating she should spin, which she does.

“I know, but…” She shakes her head and goes back to the dressing room without waiting for the 360-degree evaluation.

The _but_ is that this parade of garments—even the internship-appropriate ones—just feels like so many costumes, and Betty knows she is not a good actress.

She returns home with one slightly fancy little black dress; the neckline and hemline are a little past her comfort level, but it’s chic, and Kevin and the saleslady both said it would be a crime against humanity for her to leave it on the rack. She also has some new, better-fitting bras and an updated tribute to the 2012 J. Crew Easter collection.

(At least her mother can’t find anything to fight with her about.) 

Her unwillingness to embrace a new look, or her inability to do so, is not, she tells herself, an indication that she’ll have a hard time being someone else for the summer. She can be a different person in the same clothes. Besides, there are parts of her appearance she could change besides her wardrobe. She could wear her hair down more often, or look into eyeliner. She could do other, non-appearance things, too. She could try new foods that she probably won’t like. She could be euphoric again.

(She could try to get some low-pressure relationship experience, or maybe just flirting experience, with a guy who isn’t Archie?)

(No. She couldn’t do that.)

Finally, one week after school lets out, her big day arrives. She hugs her mom and Polly goodbye while her dad loads her suitcases into the trunk, and then she and Hal are off on the three-hour drive to the small and picturesque town of Brook Glen, New York. It’s home to the equally small and picturesque Brook Glen College, one of those tight-knit co-ed liberal arts enclaves that dot the Northeast. It’s home to Brook Glen Press, a college-affiliated but technically independent publishing house specializing in regional fiction and non-academic nonfiction (regional focus preferred but not required). It’s home to Betty Cooper, this summer.

Betty has not yet perfected the art of eyeliner.

The car ride seems to take forever, in part because her father is drilling her on details he ought to know already. Yes, she’s living in a dorm. No, the dorm won’t have college students in it aside from their resident assistants; it’s the dorm reserved for high school students participating in various summer programs—internships, athletics, some STEM nerds. Yes, she does know how many interns are in her program—just four. No, she doesn’t know who the other ones are, and no, she doesn’t know how many athletes or STEM nerds there are or who _they_ are. Yes, she’ll have a roommate and dining hall access. No, she won’t walk around alone at night even though Brook Glen is consistently ranked one of the safest towns in the entire country. Yes, she’ll remember to call home every couple of days. No, she won’t get into trouble with any boys.

Yes, she’s very excited for the moment her dad will disappear from sight, and no, she does not say that out loud to him.

Once they arrive at the campus, Betty decides it’s even more beautiful than the pictures showed. Brook Glen College is almost a stereotype of what colleges are supposed to look like, gray stone and ivy across from 1970s brick and neatly trimmed hedges, endless tree-lined quadrangles between them.

“I don’t need help getting settled in,” Betty insists. Her father still comes with her to check in (“Elizabeth Cooper,” is all she says, having still not decided on Lizzie or Lisa or whatever), pick up her keys, and watch her get her campus ID card printed. He also carries Betty’s suitcases up to her room, where they find four blank beige walls, two twin beds lofted over desks and her roommate’s stuff all over one of them. Judging by the luggage on the left-hand bed, her roommate is here for lacrosse camp. The linoleum floor is kind of dingy, there’s no air conditioner, and the air carries an odd smell Betty can’t quite place.

She loves it, but not quite as much as she expected to.

She has an hour until she needs to be at her general orientation, so they throw her stuff on the right-hand side of the room and get directions to a nearby café for a quick lunch.

“Guess this is it for a while,” says her dad, over the remains of a tuna salad sandwich.

“I guess so.”

He runs through another long, cautionary list of don’ts as they walk back to his car, which Betty mostly ignores.

(It’s not until the last of these _don’ts_ , another reminder not to get into any trouble with any boys, that Betty realizes she completely forgot to say goodbye to Archie.)

They hug goodbye. Hal drives away with endless backwards waves, and then finally, _finally_ , Betty—no, _Elizabeth_ Cooper is all alone in a place where no one knows her and she can be anyone she wants. Or, at least, she can be anyone who has her exact taste in clothing, inability to apply eyeliner, and tendency to show up for orientation ten minutes early and sit in the front row, notepad and pen at the ready. 

At least she remembered to wear her hair down today.

She’s not the first one to arrive, though, so she tries striking up conversations with a water polo player named Michelle (they won’t be friends, she realizes immediately, but it’s a nice enough conversation) and a computer programmer named Justine (they won’t be friends either) before she settles in to read through the orientation materials that are now being passed out.

All the students from all the programs have been gathered into one smallish lecture hall for this first orientation, so by the time Betty’s done glancing through her packet and looks up, the room is so packed she can’t even see to the back wall. It takes over an hour to run through all the basics: the code of conduct, campus rules and regulations, dorm curfew, dining hall hours, planned weekend activities. By the end of the orientation, even Betty’s enthusiasm is severely strained.

Then—and really, she should have predicted this—the huge mass of people takes so long to disperse through the two doors in back that Betty’s afraid she’s going to be late for her next orientation. She’s checked the room number about fourteen times during the last hour, and plotted out her exact route on the map they’ve been given. She has to exit this building, walk to the next building over, go to the second floor, and find room 218. This she does with barely two minutes to spare.

The timing is good, she tells herself, while she takes a moment outside the door to collect her thoughts. Perhaps this Elizabeth Cooper could be the kind of girl who’s fashionably on time, instead of ten minutes early. This Elizabeth Cooper doesn’t have to remind herself to put a big smile on her face before she goes into the room, so as not to disappoint. This Elizabeth Cooper smiles naturally, because this Elizabeth Cooper’s entire sense of self belongs to her and her alone.

(This Elizabeth Cooper’s palms are smooth and unblemished.)

This Elizabeth Cooper pushes open the classroom door just in time to hear five words she never, ever would have expected to hear during her summer away from Riverdale.

“I don’t go by Forsythe.”

Betty stops breathing.

Betty stops breathing and the smile falls right off her face, even before she steps into the room and visually confirms that indeed, Riverdale has followed her here. 

Beanie and all.

* * * * *

He’s feeling almost okay about this…whole…thing, right up to the moment when Betty Cooper walks through the door with a look on her face that makes Jughead’s entire life flash before his eyes.

That’s a lie.

Jughead has been scared out of his mind for the last two weeks, ever since he unfolded his acceptance letter for the second time, shoved down his telephone anxiety, and called to ask if there was any possible way he might still be able to come to Brook Glen. He had been expecting them to say no; would never have made the call if he had thought they would say yes. But then, he had expected them to say no to his application, too.

Being here is less scary than the alternative, but only just.

Shoved down with Jughead’s telephone anxiety? The completely pertinent and relevant fact that Betty would be here too. Betty, who is responsible for him knowing about out-of-town summer internships in the first place. Betty, who is now completely refusing to make eye contact with him or even look in his general direction. 

“Let’s have all our new interns go around the room and introduce ourselves,” one of the internship supervisors says; Jughead’s sure he should know her name already, and resolves to learn it as soon as possible. “Tell us who you are, where you’re from, and why you’re here.”

There has been _so much_ smiling already. So much that it takes Jughead a moment to register that the supervisor is now smiling at him, which means he is supposed to be talking about himself.

Why is he here?

The truth of it is, he’s here because of Billy the Bigmouth Bass. For reasons Jughead does not understand in the slightest, that had been the straw that broke the camel’s back. Sort of. 

He had been okay, or so he thought, with F.P.’s decision to move them out of the shitty house and into a shitty trailer in a shitty trailer park. The trailer was cheaper, and two people didn’t need a whole house. The trailer had walls, a roof, electricity, running water. It was fine. Livable, anyway.

He had been okay with the decision to pack up the shitty house in two days. They hardly had any stuff worth keeping; some of the nicer things had abandoned them for Toledo, and F.P. worked through a decent amount of frustration by smashing nearly all their remaining dishes. Almost everything other than the furniture fit in the bed of F.P.’s old pickup truck.

Jughead had unloaded most of that truck himself while his father and a few other Serpents—Machete, Tornado, Tinfoil Hat— unloaded furniture from another ancient pickup.

(Jughead’s newest form of personal entertainment was thinking up stupid gang member nicknames. Cheese Puff. Mosquito. Halitosis.)

Drinking ensued long before all the furniture made it in, let alone the boxes he was carrying himself.

He’d just lugged a particularly heavy box into the trailer to find his father and three Serpents he’d dubbed Tortellini, Wombat, and Flowerpot laughing hysterically over a goddamned plastic fish nailed to a goddamned wall. Billy was doing his thing, the only thing that Billy the Bigmouth Basses had ever done; it wasn’t any funnier now than it ever had been.

“Can I talk to you?” he spat, grabbing his father by the sleeve of his leather jacket and dragging him into the hallway.

F.P. gave him a glassy stare.

“You are going to _try_ , right?” Jughead hissed. 

“Try?”

“To…” How the hell was he supposed to phrase this? “Clean this mess up?”

“We just moved in. There’s no mess.”

“Dad.”

“I know that’s not what you meant,” he said, with a heavy sigh. F.P. clapped a hand on Jughead’s shoulder and then pulled him into a one-armed hug—the one-armed part being necessary, because god forbid he put his beer down. “I am going to get this family back together.”

To Jughead’s knowledge, his father did not have a gang nickname, but Halitosis would have been apt. He nodded and muttered “Yeah, okay,” not really sure how else to respond.

“Starting next week. Just give me until then, and everything will be different.”

A few seconds later, he was back in the living room area, laughing at the fish again while a wave of nausea rose in Jughead’s stomach.

Liar. Liar would also have been an apt gang nickname, if not terribly fear-inducing.

It took Jughead less than fifteen minutes to stuff his most necessary possessions into a backpack, swipe an old sleeping bag, and hightail it to the Twilight projection booth. There he’d stayed for two days before reality set in. The Twilight might be tolerable for a few days, but it lacked certain amenities. He was used to living without wi-fi (it certainly wasn’t like they’d ever had it at any house); he could cart his dirty clothes to a laundromat and survive off microwave burritos if he had to; but a shower. He was fairly certain he could not live comfortably without a shower. If school had been in session, he could have used the locker room showers, but...

He’d fished out the acceptance letter and read over its terms again. The stipend was basically nothing, even less than what he’d get working twenty hours a week at the Twilight, but with room and board factored in, it would be doable. His mom had slipped a few hundred bucks under his laptop before she’d left, which—tainted though they might be—would take care of essentials like extra-long twin sheets and keeping his cell phone turned on.

So, he had made the call and been told yes. He’d ridden out a little time at the Twilight, sneaking into the trailer to shower when his dad wasn’t there. He’d forged his father’s signature on the internship permission slip. Yesterday afternoon, he boarded the first of several buses; he spent last night on a bench at the Brook Glen bus station, and now he’s here. 

He’s here, and the lady whose name he doesn’t know is still smiling at him. 

“Jughead Jones. I’m from Riverdale, and…”

He swallows, dropping his gaze to the tabletop.

“I want to be a writer?”

That’s not a lie. 

He looks up to see the supervisor lady beaming even brighter. “We were all very impressed with the short story you submitted,” she says, at which point Jughead becomes aware that he has no idea how one is supposed to react to public praise, looks back at the table, and starts sweating profusely.

The next two interns introduce themselves. If Jughead had ever bothered to wonder about what kinds of people generally expected to spend their summer interning for a book publisher, he might have imagined something like these two girls: Tomoko Yoshida, who quickly rattles off a long list of literary interests ranging from personal essays to manga, and Marcy McDermott, a self-described unapologetic science fiction nerd who doesn’t seem to quite know how she ended up here, and not at _Amazing Stories_.

Of course, Jughead really only cares about the fourth intern, the one who’s clenching her fists under the tabletop and still refusing to look at him.

“Elizabeth Cooper,” she says, “but everyone calls me Betty.”

All Jughead wants now is to sit quietly by himself in a dark room and decompress, but that’s not to be. First he has to endure another hour of orientation, a long guided walking tour of the campus, and an early dinner at the dining hall. This last activity includes the athletes and the STEM kids. The resultant frenzy ought to bind the publishing interns together: them against the world, or at least, them against the volleyball players.

It almost works, until Tomoko says, “So you guys must know each other, huh?”

If there’s one thing Jughead understands, it’s when his presence is not desired. This, he can deal with. He has absolutely no idea what to do with himself when two out of three people seem to think he belongs in their little clique and the third, the person who does not desire his presence, is Betty Cooper.

He can’t even blame her.

It’s easy enough for him to slip into the swarm and out of the dining hall doors, checking the Sunday bus schedule to Riverdale on his phone as soon as he’s in the clear. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning. He might as well stay the night; here, at least, he has a bed, a shower, and free breakfast in the morning.

He changes into pajamas and crawls into the lofted bed, not having bothered with sheets or blankets, and closes his eyes.

Next thing he knows, someone is tapping on his door—softly at first, more insistently as he fails to answer. There’s a thin streak of light coming in through the blinds and he estimates it’s just before dawn. 

“Coming,” he grumbles.

He opens the door to find Betty Cooper standing on the other side in white denim shorts and a soft pink hoodie, her usual ponytail pulling her hair away from red-rimmed eyes.

“Hi.” Her voice is soft; her eyes are on the floor and her bright white Chuck Taylors, and Jughead is suddenly very aware that he’s not wearing his hat. 

“Hi.”

“I know it’s early. I couldn’t sleep. Can we—can we talk?”

He swings the door open further, but she shakes her head.

“I don’t have a roommate.”

“I’d rather go for a walk.”

Five minutes later, he meets her outside the dorm, fully dressed (including the hat); Betty starts walking, fists clenched tightly in the pockets of her hoodie, and he follows. Where they’re going, he doesn’t know, and he assumes Betty doesn’t either. She’s still refusing to look directly at him.

After a few minutes of silence, she inhales long and slow, then breathes out a quiet “I’m sorry.”

He waits, sensing that more words are coming and she’d rather not be prompted for them.

“I’m really sorry, Jughead. I didn’t mean…” Another deep breath; another long pause. “I was going to be different this summer.”

His head tilts at the odd phrasing. “You were going to…?”

“Yes.” Betty turns to look at him, finally. “I was going to be a different person this summer. That was the plan. I was going to come here, and no one would know me. I could be…” She throws up her hands in an exaggerated shrug, and looks at the ground again. “I don’t know, but someone more interesting. Not _me_. And then I walked into orientation and you were there,” she says, her voice picking up speed, “and I wasn’t expecting that. I didn’t even know you had applied for this internship, and it just—it freaked me out. I took it out on you and I shouldn’t have.”

Jughead feels a twitch in his chest and another one in his right arm. In any other moment, he’d probably overthink the impulse to touch her. But in this moment, he’s too caught up in how wrong it is that Betty Cooper, of all people, wants to be someone else to notice that said right arm is making its way towards her waist. He regains control of it just in time to turn the movement into what he hopes is a friendly squeeze of her left shoulder instead, one he’s just about to end when Betty wraps her right hand over his, pressing it down.

“I should have told you I applied,” he says, watching the early morning sunlight fall across the back of Betty’s neck. “I should have. I know that.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He pulls his hand out from under hers and shoves it in his pocket. “I don’t know. I didn’t expect it to come up, I guess.”

She shoots him a skeptical look, one corner of her mouth pulled up. “You didn’t expect me to notice that one of my coworkers is someone I’ve known almost my whole life?”

“I didn’t expect to get in,” he says, and when Betty scoffs, he adds “I’m not even sure why I applied, honestly. I just…did.”

“You didn’t even tell Archie, did you.” It’s not a question, and Jughead shakes his head, realizing there’s a whole long list of things he hasn’t told Archie: that his mother and Jellybean are gone, that they’ve moved again, and yes, that he is not currently in Riverdale.

It would be an awkward conversation, if he had to have it.

“I’m not going to stay.”

Betty’s eyebrows shoot right up off her forehead.

“I’m going back to Riverdale. I decided last night.”

“Because I was—”

Shit. “No. Not—” He sighs. “Not because of you. Because I shouldn’t have come in the first place.”

Betty scowls; whether it’s at him or just the world in general, he can’t tell. “Don’t say that. You’re here.”

“I don’t think…” he starts, but trails off.

Her eyes are still on him, questioning, traveling down his frame and back again. When they reach his face, she sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and lets it rake through her teeth before she speaks.

“Is everything okay, Jughead?”

She’s studying him closely now, making six different facial expressions simultaneously, and it’s all he can do not to dissolve into a little puddle.

“Yeah,” he says. “Everything is fine.”

“Okay.” Her voice is soft and he’s one hundred percent certain she does not believe him, but she lets him change the subject anyway, and doesn’t protest when he goes sardonic again.

“So who’s this other person you were going to be?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She lets out one of those half-snort-half-chuckles that he still doesn’t have a name for. “Some glamorous career gal with flawless winged eyeliner and a string of eligible bachelors falling at her feet.”

“She sounds like a handful.”

“I hadn’t figured her out yet,” Betty sighs. “We weren’t getting along very well.”

“Well, that’s her loss,” he mutters, before he can stop himself. 

Betty turns the tiniest bit pink around the edges.

“C’mon,” she says, jerking her head back in the direction from whence they came. “The dining hall should be open now. Let’s go get breakfast.”

She keeps him there for almost three hours, until nine, and then insists on walking around campus for another hour “to burn off those bagels.” It’s almost as though she knows the bus to Riverdale leaves at ten, and intends to keep him off it.

Or he’d like to think that, anyway.

Can he let himself think that?

He returns to his room just before lunch and calls Archie, but Archie doesn’t pick up.

“Oh, there you are.” Tomoko’s at his door, followed closely by Marcy and Betty. “We’re going to sneak sandwiches out of the dining hall and have a picnic down by the duck pond, wanna come?”

He glances at Betty, trying to catch her eye—would she rather he stay out of her way for the afternoon?

If she would, she doesn’t let on. “Bring a book,” she says, her voice its usual degree of cheerful. She waves a copy of _In Cold Blood_ over Marcy’s head. “We’ve decided to embrace the ‘antisocial bookworm’ stereotype.”

“Is that reading selection yours or the other girl’s?” he asks, as they clomp down the stairs.

Betty looks at him like he’s asked if she’s planning to join the circus. “Mine, of course.”

She says this as though it’s obvious, like she thinks the other girl is a Nicholas Sparks fan or something, and Jughead is left to contemplate how exactly there could be a more interesting version of Betty Cooper in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I call upon distant memories of the time I myself held a publishing internship, albeit under completely different circumstances. 
> 
> Featuring: a discourse on Frances Hodgson Burnett, Kevin asking the pertinent questions, and the return of Archie's perpetually misplaced cell phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks as always to diaphenia, who may have dropped a note about Betty and Jughead being "nerds" on this chapter, but who nevertheless remains a beautiful dining hall bagel.

Jughead’s phone rings on Sunday afternoon, while they’re still reading on the quad. He ignores it. Betty looks up briefly from _In Cold Blood_ ; he shakes his head a little and shoves the phone in his pocket, and she goes back to reading without comment.

“Hey, what’s everyone wearing tomorrow?” Tomoko asks idly. 

It is not clear to Jughead whether Tomoko expects an answer from him, but her question raises one in his own mind, and he quickly pulls out his phone to check Yelp. Thank god Brook Glen is a small college town, which means there’s a supposedly good secondhand clothing store within walking distance of the campus. How it has not previously occurred to him that showing up tomorrow in old jeans and a t-shirt with an “S” on it might not be a good idea is beyond him.

(He’s been preoccupied.)

His phone rings again an hour later, when he’s reluctantly purchasing dark khaki pants and button-downs that aren’t flannel, and he ignores it again. Then the texts start, misspelled and full of abbreviations that don’t mean anything.

He’s going to have to call back.

Finally, once he’s back in his room, he sighs heavily at the ceiling and hits the appropriate buttons. The call is picked up at once, before the first ring has even ended.

“Where the hell are you?” No hello, no good afternoon. Just, where the hell are you.

“Nice to hear from you, too, Dad.”

A sigh comes through the line. “You think I wasn’t going to notice if you up and disappeared?”

Since his father had not appeared to notice any previous disappearances…

“Yes, in fact. That’s exactly what I thought.”

“Kid.” F.P. performs some very loud hemming and hawing before continuing with words. “Look, if you wanna sleep at the Twilight, that’s your business. If you wanna sleep anywhere else in Riverdale, that’s your business. Just….”

“Is this…” Jughead puts his father on speaker, puts his phone on the desk, then digs the heels of his hands into his forehead and drags both palms downwards, slowly, over his face. “Is this parental concern for my well-being?”

“Christ, Jughead. You think I don’t keep an eye on you?”

This, again, is exactly what Jughead thought, but he senses that he ought not to say so.

(Seriously, though. His father keeps an eye on him?)

“You don’t want to come home for a while, fine. Just tell me where you are. There’s…” F.P. pauses, and Jughead’s brain immediately begins reading what is probably too much into the lack of words. “There’s more shit going on around here than you know about.”

Oh, _that_ isn’t cryptic at _all_. Nor is it reassuring from the _maybe my dad **isn’t** mixed up in horrible criminal activity_ standpoint.

Jughead fights with himself for a few seconds before deciding he might as well come out with it.

“I’m in Brook Glen.”

“Brook Glen? Like, Brook Glen, New York?”

“Brook Glen, New York,” he confirms. 

There’s a long pause. A longer pause than before.

“What the hell is in Brook Glen?”

There is a third long pause; this time, it’s on Jughead’s end.

“I got a job here. For the summer.”

“They got a drive-in movie theater in Brook Glen?”

“What? No.” Jughead forces all the air out of his lungs; this conversation is starting to give him a headache. “I’m…it’s an internship. At a publisher. It starts tomorrow.”

“An internship at a publisher?”

“Yes, an internship at a publisher. Are you just going to repeat everything I say?”

“If that’s what it takes to get this story straight, yeah.” F.P. takes a breath so deep that it turns into a violent cough. “Start from the top,” he chokes out.

“There’s no top. I just—this was something I heard about. I applied. I didn’t think I was going to get in, but I got in. And then I wasn’t going to go, until…”

At this point, Jughead discovers that he cannot yet verbalize the words _until Mom and Jellybean left_.

“Until you went,” F.P. finishes. “Your mom know?”

“No.” He hasn’t talked to her since she left. There are four voicemails from her number on his phone, and he’s called back twice, but all the communication has been from Jellybean. 

(Jellybean seems okay, which is good but also killing him, because he can’t figure out how much she knows about the separation, and doesn’t want to ask.)

“Christ, Jughead,” F.P. says again.

“I’m fine,” Jughead states flatly, before he starts making the mistake of trying to parse out F.P.’s current emotional state. “They’re giving me room and board. I’m fine.”

Yet another pause ensues. They are, Jughead thinks, becoming comical in length.

“Jughead.”

“Hmm?”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you got something like this?”

Jughead’s throat goes dry and his insides sink to the floor. It takes him a very long time to place the sensation. He’s hurt his father’s feelings, and for that, he feels ashamed.

Well.

It’s a different sensation, at least. Uncomfortable, but different. He has to give it that.

The summer, he’s realizing, is going to be full of different and uncomfortable sensations.

Calling Archie numerous times but not even getting a text in response, for example. What the hell is going on at Andrews Construction that Archie can’t even respond when he gets off work? Did he drop his phone in wet cement and still hasn’t realized?

Or wearing his shirt tucked in. That’s another one. 

(His suspenders and boots look especially ridiculous with the dark khakis and blue button-down, he knows that, but he can’t go full prep school. He just can’t. This look, if he dares to call it that, is at least appropriately weird.)

“I swear on my life,” Betty tells him solemnly on Monday morning, her eyes huge and round. “I swear I will not let anything happen to your hat.”

Before they can get to whatever the fun part of a publishing internship is, they have to get security badges for the building. These are different from campus ID cards, apparently. Unlike the campus ID, the security badges must be worn visibly at all times. Security personnel has just informed Jughead that he is not allowed to wear his hat in the security photo, not even with Betty backing him up on the very good point that he looks more like himself with the hat on than off.

He’s trying very hard not to glare at her, at the little smile that’s wavering on her bottom lip. Normally he’d just go ahead and glare—the wavering lip usually means she’s fighting back a full grin—but this morning it seems more tentative. Either Betty is afraid he’s mad at her, or his presence is still not entirely appreciated.

“For the ninety seconds it’s not on your head,” she continues.

Reluctantly, he pulls it off and places it in Betty’s outstretched hand, then runs his fingers through his hair.

“Smile,” says the person behind the camera. The best Jughead can do is to try not to maim the camera with any death-ray glares. In his peripheral vision, he can see Betty’s fingers running along the points of the brim. The sight is strangely relaxing, and he hates himself a little for thinking so.

“You look fine without it, you know,” Betty tells him when she hands his hat back. Marcy steps up for her turn with the camera, misjudges the space available between Jughead and the wall, and knocks him a step closer to Betty.

He jams the beanie back on at once. “Not the point, Cooper.”

That little smile is still wavering on her bottom lip, so he nudges her arm with his elbow. Betty nudges back, and her smile blossoms.

 _Christ, Jughead_ , he hears, in his father’s voice.

Jughead clears his throat, and Betty looks up.

“So,” he says. “Heard from Archie yet?”

* * * * * 

She has not heard from Archie yet. But, Betty reminds herself as she ascends the stairs to the copyediting offices, that’s really not important right now.

“Elizabeth Cooper,” she tells the administrative assistant. “I’m the new intern.” The administrative assistant—she does not introduce herself, but her ID badge says Erin—looks both unimpressed and only a few years older than Betty.

“Elizabeth Cooper.” Erin shuffles through some papers on her desk. “Okay, here’s the thing they sent me. Schedule. Um, you can’t do anything until IT gets your computer permissions set up, and I don’t think they’re coming until this afternoon.”

“Okay.” Betty smooths her hands across her skirt. For a moment, she considers adding _I go by Betty_. She did, after all, let that slip at orientation. But the temptation to be a different Elizabeth Cooper remains strong enough that she keeps her mouth shut. (A different Elizabeth Cooper who is dressed exactly like her and pursuing interests that are exactly hers alongside someone who’s known her since kindergarten. This will go well.)

Erin stands up and walks out from behind her desk. “C’mon, follow me,” she says. “I’ll show you around. Bathrooms are down the main hall to the left. Break room is this way. Do you know how to use a coffee pot?”

Eventually they get to a little computer desk that’s set up in a little office. The room is clearly used mostly as a supply closet, but there’s a _desk_ , and it’s _hers_. By the end of the day, she’s gotten her computer set up and met the rest of the copyediting staff, who promise they’ll give her actual work tomorrow.

The actual work turns out to consist of learning proofreader’s marks, which—having been practically raised in a newspaper office—she already knows.

“It was just like the first French lesson in _A Little Princess_ ,” she tells Jughead on their way to dinner. “I felt really weird explaining that I already knew all the words in that book.”

He cocks his head and glances at her, sideways.

“Aha!” Betty crows. “I found something you haven’t read.”

“I read _The Secret Garden_.”

“Mm.” Betty looks around at the lush green grass and neatly trimmed hedges that surround them. The landscaping is lovely, but now she’s wishing for a moor full of heather and wild English roses. “That one’s really the fantasy, anyway.”

“Which part? The orphan sent to live with creepy relatives part, or the invalid whose father hates him part?”

“Neither. The having a secret magical place full of beautiful flowers and baked potatoes part.”

Jughead shakes his head. “ _Little Lord Fauntleroy_ is the fantasy.”

Upon further reflection, Betty thinks the fantasy might actually be that they get to have that kind of conversation without anyone accusing them of being nerds.

Eager though she had been to find herself where no one knew her name, by the end of her first few days in Brook Glen, Betty is glad to have a friend around, especially considering that Archie and Kevin both have their own things going on. The fact that this friend should be Jughead seems surprising when she looks at it straight on (especially after how she’d behaved the day of their arrival) and self-evident when she looks at it from an angle.

When she gets back to her room that night, she texts Kevin a quick update on her first week, ending with _and Jughead’s here too._

Kevin immediately calls for more details. “Is he stalking you?”

“No,” Betty says. “C’mon.”

“That’s seriously weird, though. I didn’t think Jughead ever left his vampire coven.”

“ _Kevin!_ ” she admonishes, but she laughs a little anyway—though she immediately feels bad for doing so. “Hey, so how’s that guy you were seeing?”

Kevin launches into what sounds like a well-rehearsed comic monologue on the topic of internet dating for small-town LGBTQ teens, and Betty breathes a sigh of relief at how easy it is to change the subject. 

Had she been hoping for a new social circle? Yes, of course. But she’d somehow failed to take into consideration the possibility that she, boring ol’ reliable Betty Cooper, would in fact be the most outgoing and socially competent person in a group of English nerds. 

She feels like there are a lot of buts. 

Tomoko and Marcy are nice enough, but—being roommates—seem to have bonded with each other. Betty’s been hanging out with them every night, and they don’t seem to mind, but she still feels a bit third-wheelish. She’s introduced herself to people from swim camp and basketball camp and computer programming camp and biology lab internships, and no one ever tries to get her to leave, but…the general atmosphere is insular, to say the least.

Since her evenings are always free now, unencumbered by homework or extracurricular activities, it’s starting to become a problem. The first week has been okay, but she’s already sensing that the snow in her snow globe is starting to settle.

(Archie has sent her a picture of Vegas with the caption “he misses U!” and absolutely no mention of whether _Archie_ misses her...)

There’s also this but: but how is she supposed to get a break from her family when her parents insist on calling her every single night? Not picking up is not, Betty knows, actually an option.

“Can I talk to Polly?” she asks, every time. Only once has her sister come to the phone. She sounded…okay.

Every morning she erases a new text asking if she’s taken her Adderall, though not until she’s typed a _yes, Mom_ in response. This is a lie. She has not taken her Adderall.

Jughead has spent their first week shadowing an acquisitions editor, and Acquisitions is on the other side of the building. They see each other in the dining hall for meals, or else they pass in the hallways. Aside from the lack of actual classes, it all feels a little bit like being at school, with more requests that she make another pot of coffee. Betty’s well on her way to being fluent in Chicago, AP, and APA in addition to knowing all her proofreader’s marks, and her bosses have letting her practice on some real, honest-to-god manuscripts, ones that haven’t even been published yet. She knows it’s not a _huge deal_ , but it’s still exciting, getting sneak peeks of pages that are going to be real books someday.

This Elizabeth Cooper has not yet made the kind of mistake that would send her heart plummeting into her shoes and get stuck there for days. In fact, this Elizabeth Cooper’s bosses keep telling her she’s great. There are eight tiny crescent-shaped scabs in her palms, and most of the time they don’t even itch. 

But. The difference between school and work is that when Betty left Riverdale High at the end of each day, she came home to _home_.

When she leaves Brook Glen Press, she returns to a ten-by-ten cinderblock cell that’s technically half hers but feels maybe one-eighth that way. Morgan, her lacrosse-playing roommate, is nice enough, but she’s also louder and more generally social than Betty—and there are about ten times more lacrosse players than publishing interns, so Morgan’s acquaintances can fill up space in a way that Betty’s can’t. The Cooper household may not have been much of a sanctuary this past year, but Betty’s room was still _hers_. It had her walls, her bed, her vanity, her window with her view of Archie’s room.

(The food at home is better than the dining hall options, to the point that Betty would be genuinely unsure how the Freshman 15 could be a thing, were it not for the fact that the only reliably edible food is bagels.)

“Hey, Archie finally called me back today,” Jughead tells her on Thursday, as they leave the office for the dining hall, Tomoko and Marcy deep in conversation a few yards ahead of them. He’s already pulling off his employee ID badge, the one that Betty suspects he thinks is the single worst part of this internship, and stuffing it in his pocket. “Left his phone in the Andrews Construction office overnight twice this week, or so he claims.”

It’s taken her until today to come to terms with how funny the security badge situation is. She, who came here to be a different person, looks exactly like herself on her ID badge: a smile that only she can tell is forced, a robin’s egg blue cardigan, and light mascara—though that last one doesn’t really show up in a low-res picture printed on plastic.

Jughead’s ID badge appears to actually belong to a completely different person, even though he seems to be just fine with the person he already is. Not only was the hat forbidden, they wouldn’t let him put a nickname on the badge, and so he has to walk around all day labeled “Forsythe.” This has, she knows, had the unfortunate effect of inspiring some people in the office to _call_ him Forsythe.

(No one seems to object to him wearing the hat to work, though, or the suspenders. This makes sense. Compared to what some of the college students here for summer classes walk around wearing, Jughead’s vaguely more professional than usual, faded khaki hipster ensembles are really quite tame.)

“What else did he have to say?” Betty has called Archie three times in the past week, to no avail. She’s gotten a few texts in response, but nothing approaching a conversation.

Jughead shrugs. “I couldn’t pick up when he called. He left a message.”

“Oh. So, does he know you’re here?”

“I’m not sure.” There’s a moment’s hesitation, and then Jughead adds, “Should I be pissed about that?”

Betty can’t decide one way or the other, and settles for asking Jughead why he looks like _he’s_ spent all day working at a construction site.

“Craziest thing,” he says, his voice flippant. “Did you know publishing houses tend to be full of books?”

“I thought you were working in Acquisitions.”

“Well, they’ve acquired a lot of books.” He stretches his left elbow above his head and tugs gently, then repeats the move on his other arm, wincing slightly. “Which I have now moved from the office to the basement.”

“Ouch.”

“In an unrelated matter, the basement lacks air conditioning and the freight elevator’s broken.”

“Sounds like you need a massage,” she jokes. A look of complete terror crosses Jughead’s face, and she tries not to laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m not offering one.” 

He recovers his composure quickly. “Thank goodness for small miracles.”

“Hey.” Betty stops in her tracks, realizing that she has not seen Jughead past dinnertime any day this week, and that this is probably weird. “What _are_ you doing tonight?”

“Writing. Or I’ve got movies on my laptop.”

“That’s it?”

“The world is truly my oyster, Betty.” 

“Lucky,” she mutters. “Getting your own room.”

“Maybe you should have accepted late and been the only person of your gender in the program.”

She makes a face at him, because this Elizabeth Cooper is…whatever.

Betty’s room has developed a new smell over the week, a mixture of fruity body wash, baby powder, and Morgan’s sweaty clothes. Their door is propped open, as usual, and lacrosse players are drifting in and out, as usual, and the conversation is loud, as usual. When her inner restlessness becomes unbearable, Betty shoves her campus ID and her keys into her pocket, intending to go to Tomoko and Marcy’s room, as usual.

For some reason her feet take her up one flight of stairs instead of down the hall, and she finds herself knocking on an entirely different door, without much of a plan in mind.

“Betty?”

“Hi.” She clears her throat, giving herself a moment to think. “Want to go for a walk?” 

“Um. Okay.” Jughead steps back and waves her inside. “I need shoes.” 

Jughead’s room has just one scent, which she supposes is his; it smells a little like Archie’s bedroom, but different, in a way she can’t quite define. Betty leans against the wall just inside the doorway, taking in the very few things there are to take in while he heads for the closet. Jughead is not the decorating type, apparently. Nor does he seem to be one for clutter. The top of Betty’s dresser is covered in hairbrushes and makeup; the top of Jughead’s dresser holds his keys, a comb, and fourteen cents. His laptop sits on the desk opposite from the bed he’s been sleeping in, along with a water bottle. One old photo is propped up in the corner of the corkboard that’s behind the desk, and she decides to go for a closer look.

The picture shows two dark-haired kids, a boy wearing a familiar but newish-looking beanie and a girl who appears to be four or five years younger, with a definite family resemblance between them. Betty’s not sure she’s ever met Jughead’s sister, or even seen a picture of her, though she’s heard him mention her here and there over the years. Jellybean, she remembers, smiling a little at the nickname. She’s cute.

Betty turns around just in time to notice there’s a small hole in Jughead’s sock before he shoves his foot into an ancient black high-top.

“Jughead?”

“Hmm?”

“We’re friends, right?” He looks completely baffled at this question, which she finds kind of funny, since she meant it rhetorically. Of _course_ they’re friends. (Does Jughead not think they’re friends?) “How come I know practically nothing about your family?”

A swoop of hair has fallen in Jughead’s eye as he’s leaned over to tie his shoes, and he pushes it back into place. Twice, although it hasn’t fallen a second time.

“Elementary, my dear Watson,” he says, affecting a truly awful British accent. “I don’t talk about them.”

“Why not?”

Jughead’s shoulders hitch up around his ears, and his gaze drops to the floor. “I just don’t.” 

“Again,” Betty says, “why not?”

“Ready to go?”

His gaze flickers to her now, like he _knows_ she’s not going to accept that answer, which is correct. She isn’t. Not forever, anyway. For now, she stays silent, but raises her eyebrows as high as she can. Jughead sighs in response, collects his keys from the top of the dresser, and gestures her out of the room.

For a moment, she’s afraid he won’t follow her, but he steps over the threshold and pulls the door shut.

“Where are we going, Betty?” he asks, speaking more softly than usual. 

“I don’t know. Around?”

Jughead shrugs in assent, and they descend three flights of stairs and emerge from a side door, the world at their disposal.

Betty finds herself wandering south, towards the edge of campus, Jughead trailing behind her. It’s a direction she hasn’t really explored yet, and she makes a mental note to do that this weekend, in between whatever high-school-students-of-the-world-unite bonding exercises have been planned. Heck, she hasn’t even set foot off the campus all week. She’s struck with the sudden urge to do so, even though they have less than an hour before curfew.

“You know,” she muses, as much to herself as to Jughead, “I think this is the longest I’ve gone without a milkshake all year.”

Jughead makes a weird little noise that might be a laugh. “We’ll have to find you a diner. Can’t have you wasting away to nothing.” 

“That’s not likely to happen.”

“We’re in a college town,” he says, his voice dry. “There has to be a diner here somewhere.”

Betty meant the wasting away part, but decides not to clarify. “You having Pop’s coffee withdrawal?”

“I’m having Pop’s _booth_ withdrawal. I can get bad coffee anywhere.”

“We should do it,” Betty decides. “We should find a diner. Weekend mission, Jones?”

Jughead stops dead in his tracks and puts on an exaggerated display of sizing her up. “Weekend mission, Cooper,” he agrees.

They shake on it, and Betty thinks: _definitely friends_.

Friday passes without major incident. The resident assistants have planned a game night in one of the common rooms, and Betty’s almost ready to pin the murder on Mrs. Peacock in the conservatory (she just needs to figure out whether it’s the candlestick or the revolver) and lord her victory over a collection of overly logical STEM kids when her phone buzzes.

_Target acquired. Meet me out front at noon tomorrow?_

Tomorrow Betty is theoretically supposed to play kickball in the morning and go on a scavenger hunt in the afternoon, but it suddenly occurs to her that she is not ten years old, this is not summer camp, and she is under no real obligation to spend all day with people she doesn’t like very much.

 _Roger that_ , she types back.

The diner Jughead’s located is about a mile away, so it’ll be a bit of a hike, but Betty doesn’t mind one bit. Saturday gives them perfect end-of-June weather, bright and sunny and just hot enough to prove the adage about ladies _glowing_ correct. It feels good to break a bit of a sweat. Or glow, rather. 

“I talked to Archie last night, finally,” Jughead says, as they cross the street that separates the campus from the little downtown area.

“And?”

Jughead shrugs. “He’s Archie. He was weird about it for, like, two minutes. Then he went ‘Well, that’s cool, Jughead,’ and said if his dad says it’s okay, he’ll try to come down and visit us for the Fourth.”

Betty’s glow increases. “That’s next weekend! Well…” She thinks for a moment. “The Fourth is Tuesday. But he’d probably come on the weekend, right?”

“I guess it would depend on Fred.”

“That would be fun, Archie coming. He could crash for the night in your room, I bet. We can show him your ID badge.” This earns her an exaggerated eye roll, and she giggles.

“And then he said he had to go, and hung up.”

She almost, _almost_ asks if Archie said where he was going (and, implicitly, whether it was a date), but bites her tongue. Literally, and a bit too hard. There’s still a coppery taste in her mouth when they arrive at the diner, which turns out to not be nearly as good as Pop’s. The décor is straight 1970s and onion rings are not on the menu. Betty’s strawberry milkshake arrives without a cherry or a strawberry or even whipped cream on top, and the fries are a little overdone. But it’ll do.

“Better than what we’ve been eating, anyway,” Betty concludes, and Jughead—whose appetite has not been dampened by the dining hall fare, so far as she can tell—concurs.

She wants to send Archie about forty-five texts imploring him to come, but that feels a little desperate. In the end, she edits herself down to three.

Four hours later, she gets a smiley face.

* * * * * 

By the second day of the second week of his internship, Jughead has concluded a giant shoe must be hanging above his head, waiting for him to let his guard down just enough for it to drop unnoticed.

All of the adults in the publishing office seem to like him. Tomoko and Marcy seem to like him—in a Kevin Keller sort of way, which is to say, he rarely interacts with them outside of mealtimes and the occasional hallway encounter. There is no Reggie Mantle equivalent in Brook Glen, not even among the athletes with whom he shares the dorm bathrooms. (The athletes don’t like or dislike him; they simply don’t pay attention to him. He’ll take it.)

Oh, and Betty Cooper keeps coming to his bedroom at night.

It’s not like _that_. It’s just, Betty seems to have intuited that her presence in his room doesn’t bother him, and so she stops by when she needs some down time. She has not yet made an actual habit of taking a book, or her laptop, or her diary, and sitting quietly on the spare bed in Jughead’s room for an hour or two at night. But it’s happened a couple of times.

“I’m not disturbing you, right?” she says on Tuesday after she’s crawled up there, having invited herself over each of the previous two nights.

He scoffs at her. “When have you ever disturbed anyone?”

In fact, the word she’s looking for is _distracting_ , not _disturbing_. But he doesn’t tell her so. The distraction is more than welcome, because part of what’s keeping that other shoe in the air is a weird tugging feeling at the bottom of his lungs. It pulls in the direction of Riverdale, and he keeps thinking _no, that’s not right at all, shouldn’t it be going towards Ohio?_

Betty rolls her eyes at him. 

“You should see my room, though. It’s like…”

For some reason, Jughead is struck with an uncontrollable urge to see Betty’s room. “Okay,” he says at once.

“No, wait. Where are you—wait, are you going there now?”

“Why not?” He swings down from his own bed, grabs his room keys, and shoves them in a pocket. “Will my appearance embarrass you?”

“Of course not. It’s weird that you haven’t seen my room yet.”

“Lead the way, then.”

She does, throwing her roommate a cover story about needing to grab something essential, and ferrets around in a desk drawer for long enough to let him get a good look at the place. From the doorway. There’s no possible way he’s going to try and fit himself in there, not with what seems like two dozen girls on the floor alone (he doesn’t even try to count how many are sitting on the beds—yes, including Betty’s bed).

Once they’re back in the relative sanctuary of his room, Betty tilts her head at him and says “I told you so.”

“It was like…” He really doesn’t even have words. “A scene from a raunchy high school comedy movie that my demographic is supposed to find…”

“Hot,” Betty supplies, as deadpan as she’s capable of being. 

“But plot twist, it’s actually a horror movie and they’re going to murder me with lacrosse sticks.”

“Or stinky sports bras. Or 5:30 wakeup calls.” She sighs. “The one good thing about Morgan is that she does always go to bed early and she doesn’t care if I keep my desk light on.”

For a moment, Jughead considers offering Betty his second bed. The only reason he doesn’t is a very real fear that she’ll accept. Instead he sends Archie a dozen texts about the upcoming weekend, none of which receive a response.

Betty doesn’t come to his room on Wednesday, which is just as well, because his mother calls. His actual mother, not Jellybean using his mother’s cell phone.

“Your father says you got a job out of town.”

“Yep.”

“Is it good?”

“It’s okay.”

The tension’s so thick you could cut it with a knife, and Jughead distracts himself through most of their brief conversation by wondering which _kind_ of knife: steak, bread, butter, meat cleaver? Do you need a sharp knife to cut tension, or is tension more satisfyingly hacked through?

“Do you know when you’re…” he ventures.

His mother sighs deeply but doesn’t answer, and Jughead thinks: _plastic spoon_.

On Thursday night, Betty shows up at his door with her laptop already open to reveal Archie on video chat. This makes logical sense: today is Thursday, and Archie’s supposed to come on Saturday. How, exactly, Jughead isn’t sure, since he knows Archie only has a learner’s permit. Still, transportation seems to be the least pressing problem right now. The bigger issue is that the whole planning enterprise is making Jughead grumpy, which…Archie is both his best friend and Betty’s best friend. Why the hell wouldn’t he want to help them make plans?

It might have something to do with the fact that Archie’s been ignoring him all week. Maybe. 

They’ve put Betty’s laptop on the spare desk; she’s standing in front of her camera with her arms crossed tightly over her chest and her hands balled into fists, while Jughead lingers to the side. He can see Archie, but Archie can’t see him. This feels metaphorical.

“I just—I don’t know if I can commit, guys.”

Betty frowns. “To Saturday, or—”

“No, to coming at all.”

“Are you working this weekend?”

“No…”

“Archie.” Betty’s jaw sets. “What is going on?”

“Nothing. I’ve just been really busy.”

“Too busy to come see your two best friends?”

“I’m gonna try really hard, guys.” He makes the _let’s be friends, Jughead!_ face, but at Betty, who looks like she’s about to cry.

Jughead waits a moment for her switch to flip. When it doesn’t, he nudges her aside just enough to be visible in the camera. “Seriously, Arch?”

“I definitely want to come,” Archie says. “I definitely want to. I just…” He laces his fingers together in front of his chest, cracks his knuckles, then puts both hands atop his head, thus making it evident that the scant two weeks of summer they’ve had so far have been very, very good to his general pectoral and bicep regions.

(And if he, Jughead, is noticing _already_ and _not at all on purpose_ , then what the hell is Archie going to look like at the end of the summer?)

In this moment, it seems absolutely critical not to look at Betty, a task Jughead instantly fails to accomplish.

His best friend is _such_ an idiot.

“So come.” Betty widens her eyes at the screen, tilts her head; the universal facial expression for _duh_. Which, really: duh, Archie.

“Okay,” Archie groans. “Okay. I promise I’ll come.”

“Okay.” Betty smiles at the computer, but if Jughead was a betting man, he’d bet the smile was a little bit forced.

“I really do want to. I miss both you guys.”

“We miss you too,” Betty assures him, and Jughead decides he’ll just let her speak for the both of them. 

Archie doesn’t come. Not on Saturday. Betty’s wearing her hair down, and he doesn’t come. They’re halfway to the dining hall when they get the text— _sorry guys, can’t today. Tomorrow?_ —and a sad face emoji.

“Sure,” Betty says aloud. “Tomorrow works.” She texts Archie back to say as much.

Archie doesn’t show up Sunday either. _Dad needed the truck_ , this time. _Sorry. Tomorrow?_ This message arrives at 6:30 in the morning.

“Which you can’t drive by yourself anyway,” Jughead mutters to his phone, before rolling over to go back to sleep.

At lunch, Betty says she’s asked her sister to go over to the Andrews house and talk to Archie in person on their behalf, but Polly hasn’t responded.

The press offices are closed Monday morning for the Tuesday holiday. _Definately 100% coming tomorrow!_ writes Archie.

Betty grits her teeth, pulls her hair into a ponytail, and eats two bagels for breakfast while Jughead wonders how many times you have to spell “definitely” wrong before your phone gives up on auto-correcting it.

July 4th dawns. Betty knocks on Jughead’s door first thing in the morning with her hair down in little waves, her eyelashes especially dark, and her fingers tapping nervously on her bare thigh, just under the hem of the shortest skirt Jughead has ever seen her wear (not that he has ever kept track of Betty’s skirt lengths).

It strikes him, like a goddamn out-of-control firework exploding right in his eye, that this might just be the other girl. Or, at least, the remnants of her.

Archie doesn’t show.

* * * * * 

Archie doesn’t show, and Betty doesn’t cry.

Betty doesn’t cry in front of Jughead. She does excuse herself to her room late that morning, when it’s become pretty clear their mutual best friend has chosen to remain in Riverdale. Lacrosse camp, mercifully, is on a nature hike, so she has the room to herself.

She locks the door behind her, climbs into her bed, and _then_ she cries. Even as her floodgates open, she’s aware that this is not about Archie. Not exactly. Not entirely.

Maybe a little.

Maybe she doesn’t want to think about why she’s crying. Maybe she just needs a general emotional purge right now.

Around lunchtime, Betty becomes painfully aware that she ate practically nothing for breakfast. She sits up, wipes her tears, blows her nose. With a mounting sense of dread, she climbs down from her lofted bed and goes to look in the mirror that hangs on the closet door. She’s not a pretty sight. But she takes a deep breath, grabs a makeup removal wipe, and gets to work.

In about fifteen minutes, her face is presentable enough. In another two, she’s out of the miniskirt and into a more comfortable pair of shorts. In another five, she’s marching across the street that separates campus from downtown, unsure of her final destination but entirely sure she needs a brisk walk that will take her far, far away from campus.

Her feet carry her to the diner, where she is somehow unsurprised to find Jughead ensconced in a booth at the back, scowling at his laptop, black coffee in hand despite the day’s heat. The remnants of a burger and fries sit on a plate to his left.

“Hi.” She drops into the seat across from him. “Mind if I sit?”

Jughead raises an eyebrow at her. “You’re already sitting,” he says, but he’s smiling enough for her to confirm that he really doesn’t mind. 

Two can play at this game, Betty thinks, and she raises an eyebrow back. “I can get up.”

“No.”

“Okay, then.”

A waitress comes by, and Betty orders her own burger and fries, plus two milkshakes—one vanilla, one strawberry.

“Are you feeling a lack of calcium today, Betts?” Jughead’s been staring at his screen, but now his eyebrow goes back up. “Keeping osteoporosis at bay?”

“No, silly,” she says. “One’s for you. My treat.”

Jughead props his elbows on the table, interlaces his fingers, and rests his chin on his hands, then proceeds to gaze silently at her for so long that she actually starts to feel squirmy, and starts staring at her fingernails. She can still feel his eyes on her, though, and she’s just about to let out a sharp “What?” when he speaks.

“So, Jellybean’s in Ohio. With my mom.”

Betty senses weight hanging on these seemingly innocuous words—enough weight that her breath hitches in her chest. She glances up and assumes she’ll find Jughead looking at the table. To her surprise, he isn’t. He’s still looking right at her, a slight furrow in his brow, seemingly even more terrified than that one time she’d mentioned massages. 

Betty counts to five-Mississippi under her breath and wonders why this feels like both a gift and a test.

“For how long?” she asks. 

Jughead’s mouth opens and closes without any sound coming out. Then he opens it again. His head ducks a little, eyes moving to a crumpled napkin on the table, in a way that makes Betty suspect he’s trying to hide behind his computer screen.

“Oh, god, Jughead.”

She leans across the tabletop and lays her hand on his forearm. Jughead looks at it for a moment, takes a breath, then places his arm flat on the table. Her hand slides down over his, and she gives it a soft little squeeze. A part of her expects Jughead to retract, but he doesn’t.

They’re still sitting like that when Betty’s phone abruptly goes absolutely bonkers.

“You should maybe answer,” Jughead says, pulling his hand away.

Betty shakes her head, eyebrows raised, and digs around in her purse until she finds the offending device.

“It’s Kevin,” she mutters, recognizing the shape of his name before she can focus on the words underneath. “What the…oh, my god.”

As Betty scans the screen, she feels all the blood drain from her face. 

“What?” demands Jughead. 

“Juggie,” she whispers, a tremble in her voice. She holds up the phone so he can read Kevin’s text for himself. “Jason Blossom is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who leaves/has been leaving comments and kudos. They really do make my day.
> 
> I'm at stillscape.tumblr.com as well; come say hi anytime!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I do an excellent job at maintaining the premise of this fic. 
> 
> Featuring: fireworks?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diaphenia is a beautiful Sleeping Beauty. 
> 
> Settle back, folks. This one clocks in at around 8k.

_Jason Blossom is dead_. 

It’s been two hours since Betty first read those words, and they have yet to sink in. 

Her parents are not answering their phones. _Polly_ is not answering her phone. Kevin did answer his phone; Betty put him on speaker right there in the diner, and she and Jughead leaned over the table together and learned the details. Sweetwater River. Rowboat. Cheryl. Glove (glove?). Jason swept away. No sign of a body yet. The facts they have so far reverberate through her mind over and over, accompanied by the echo of Jughead’s fingers clacking away on his laptop keys as he transcribed Kevin’s every word for future reference. 

Jughead keeps muttering that something about this seems especially strange; Betty would almost certainly agree with him, if she weren’t so desperate to hear from her family. 

Her sister’s boyfriend is dead. Probably. He’s definitely missing. And if Cheryl says she saw him succumb to the river’s current…if Cheryl believes her beloved twin brother is dead… 

“I should be there.” This, above all, is the thought Betty can’t shake. “Jughead, I should be there. With Polly.” 

She’s trying desperately not to clench her fists as she says it. They’re back in Jughead’s room, on opposite beds as usual, both searching the internet for any breaking news from Riverdale. So far, nothing; her parents haven’t posted a single update to the _Register_ ’s Twitter feed or Facebook page. Kevin can only get away with texting her so many updates, and on top of that, Kevin doesn’t really know very much to begin with. No one seems to. 

Jughead looks up, his ear pressed to his own phone; he’s been trying to call Archie, also without success. 

“Try the house phone,” Betty suggests, and Jughead nods. No one picks up there either. Jughead calls Fred’s cell next, but no dice. 

She hates this. 

“I hate this,” says Jughead. 

“Do you think there’s any way to get from here to Riverdale without getting a ride from our parents?” 

“There’s a bus that leaves at ten in the morning. And it takes almost seven hours one way.”

“ _Seven hours_?”

“There’s a change in Albany.” 

Betty blinks. “Wow, that was precise. How did you know—” 

“I took it to get here.” 

“Oh.” She’s about to question this further when her phone starts ringing. “Oh, thank god. It’s my mom.” With trembling fingers, Betty answers. “Mom? Mom, what’s going on? How’s Polly?” 

She hears a deep, measured sigh. 

“Sit down, please, Elizabeth, and try not to interrupt me,” says Alice Cooper, and Betty realizes her afternoon is about to get a whole lot worse.

“Why do I need to be sitting?” 

Jughead lifts his head at that, sending a concerned look across the room. Betty waves him off, which he seems to take as a request to leave the room; she thinks about it for half a second, about how much privacy she might want for this conversation. Then a loud noise comes from the hallway, reminding Betty that things are hardly going to be more private out there. She shakes her head, gesturing Jughead back to his bed. 

(She also has a premonition-y kind of feeling that she is going to need to discuss this phone call with someone, and Jughead is really the only candidate for that.) 

“Your sister has gotten very sick.” 

“Because of what happened to Jason?”

“Betty, I asked you not to interrupt.” Alice clears her throat with the tiniest of _hmm_ s. “This has nothing to do with Jason’s… incident.”

“It’s a little more than an ‘incident,’ Mom—”

Her mother simply talks over her. “As you know, your sister’s behavior has been rather unstable lately. I’m afraid she lied to us all about breaking up with Jason Blossom and has been seeing him behind our backs.”

Wait, is there any possible way her mother thinks she didn’t know this? Betty decides it’s safer not to ask. 

“Your father and I have not figured out exactly what that boy did to her. She won’t tell us. But Polly—well, I’m afraid her health is not good.” 

“What, did he give her swine flu or something?” 

If Alice identifies the sarcasm Betty intended, she doesn’t acknowledge it. “Her _mental_ health, Betty.” There’s a slight pause that Betty—despite the sinking feeling in her chest—is able to identify as a precise sip of chilled white wine. “In consultation with Polly’s psychiatrist and, yes, with Polly, we’ve all decided it would be for the best for her to seek treatment elsewhere, in an inpatient facility. Outside of Riverdale.” 

“You _locked_ her up?” 

Jughead straightens up so suddenly that his laptop almost flies off his knees, and Betty thinks: _maybe I should have gone for privacy_. It’s too late now, though. 

“We did not lock her up. She went willingly, several days ago. She’s going to take as much time as she needs to recover, and when she’s all better, she’ll rejoin us.” 

A hundred thousand million thoughts swirl around in the hurricane that is now Betty’s brain. After what seems like hours but is probably seconds, she’s able to grab hold of one. “Can I talk to her?” 

What she means is _Mom, you drive down here right this minute and take me to her_ , but what she hears is “The doctors think it’s best for Polly to have complete isolation so she can focus on her recovery.” 

“No!” Betty cries. “No, Mom. Polly’s my _sister_. I need to talk to her.” 

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question, sweetie.” 

Betty argues, cajoles, pleads, whines, and insists, but makes no headway with her mother; Alice won’t even give her a hint as to where Polly is. After she’s tried and failed with her father as well, she hangs up and collapses backwards on the bare mattress, staring at the ceiling. 

A familiar gray beanie pops up over the side of the bed, and she registers Jughead climbing the ladder to wordlessly offer her a wad of toilet paper—in lieu of a tissue, she supposes. 

“Thanks,” she says, accepting it. She dabs at the corners of her eyes out of habit and finds only the tiniest bit of dampness in each; she must have run out of tears this morning. 

He doesn’t ask if she’s okay, and she finds she’s very grateful for that. 

At dinner, they tell Tomoko and Marcy about Jason, leaving out both the part about Jason being Polly’s boyfriend and the part about Polly being, well… whatever Polly’s been. Hospitalized? Possibly against her will, possibly not? 

Everyone has been told there’s a spot on the west side of campus that provides a good view of Brook Glen’s fireworks, so they follow a steady trickle of folks over there as the sun sets. Tomoko’s thought to bring a spare, if small, blanket, and the four of them squeeze onto it. Betty finds her legs have to go in the grass, but that’s fine; she stretches them in front of her and waits for the show to start, even though she’s pretty sure this particular Fourth of July has produced quite enough excitement already. A glance to her left indicates Jughead feels the same way.

It has been a day for both of them, she thinks, remembering the look on his face when he’d told her about his mom and Jellybean. 

She nudges Jughead’s arm, and he shifts his eyes to her without moving his head. 

“It’s weird not watching _Jaws_ tonight,” she says, referring to the usual Independence Day selection at the Twilight Drive-In. 

A soft little smile flits across his face. 

Dawn breaks to find Betty already awake, scribbling notes to herself. Sleep had not come easily for her last night, and when it did come, it brought her images of Polly in distress: Polly crying, Polly reaching out to her, Polly in a white dress and gloves, pulled underwater by an impossible current. Work will be a relief when she gets there. Having specific tasks to focus on, a schedule to dictate how she spends her time—Betty will feel better by lunchtime, she knows it. Until then, she hopes organizing her subconscious on paper will keep it from taking over her waking mind. 

Unfortunately, by Wednesday morning, the story of the teenage boy from Riverdale who was swept downriver and most likely drowned has made regional headlines. Betty and Jughead both get pulled in for a quick chat with the internship coordinator and an HR rep and the heads of their respective departments before she’s even logged into her computer. 

“We have resources here, if either of you need to talk to anyone,” says the HR rep. “Everyone will understand if you’d like to take it slow for a couple of days. It’s hard to process the death of a friend, especially when it’s someone so young, under such unusual circumstances.”

Betty puts on her best smile. “Thank you, but I’m okay,” she says, at the same time Jughead informs them “Jason Blossom was hardly a friend.” 

“Which doesn’t mean his death isn’t upsetting,” he adds quickly, when a look of concern crosses the HR rep’s face. 

“I think a normal workday will help us both process our grief,” Betty says, and Jughead nods in agreement. 

She compartmentalizes successfully until the end of the day, when Tomoko bangs a tray down across from her at dinner and demands to know _everything_. 

“He was in my sister’s grade,” Betty says, with what she hopes is a casual little shrug. “I didn’t really know him very well.” She spears a cucumber out of her salad, hoping a full mouth will excuse her from having to talk. 

Jughead flicks a glance across the table at her as Tomoko turns on him. 

“You’re an investigative journalist now?” he asks her, and she grins. 

“A good story is a good story, Jughead.” 

“I didn’t know Jason very well either.” 

“But you knew him a little.” 

“Yeah,” says Jughead slowly. “Not to speak ill of the dead, if he is really dead, but the guy was kind of a dick.” 

“Didn’t his sister say she saw him die?” Tomoko asks, right before Betty can let the same question loose. “Why would she lie?” 

“Because no one has found a body and Cheryl’s more than a little insane.” Jughead shoots Betty a look, like he’s asking for backup. But she’s already decided that this casual summation of her sister’s boyfriend annoys her more than it perhaps should, so she remains silent. “He’s probably dead,” Jughead continues. “I’m just saying. That’s the genre. No one is _definitely_ dead until the body turns up.” 

“That’s true,” says Tomoko, and Betty glares daggers at both of them. 

She stays in her own room that night, searching the internet for new news of Jason, her headphones and loud music barely helping against the usual onslaught of lacrosse players. Her mother calls, and she takes the call in the common room, using the background noise as a buffer against her own feelings. 

“When can I visit Polly, Mom?” 

Alice sighs. “Not right now.” 

“Are _you_ visiting her?”

“When the doctor says it’s a good idea.” After the requisite measured sip of chilled white wine, Alice reveals that she and Betty’s father are going the weekend after next, leaving Friday afternoon and staying the night. 

“Can you give her a message from me, at least?” 

“We can take a message with us.” From her mother’s tone of voice, Betty deduces that the odds of Polly receiving said message are slim to none, but she dictates a few sentences of love and goodwill anyway. 

For once she decides to go to sleep when Morgan turns the lights out, even though her brain is still running at a million miles an hour. After twenty minutes of internal fidgeting, she pulls her phone over and looks up a few deep breathing and relaxation techniques. 

Feeling kind of stupid—surely this isn’t going to work—she tenses her whole body on purpose, then focuses on letting go one inch at a time, starting from her toes. She breathes in for four counts and out for eight counts. 

There is no possible way that this will convince Betty’s mind to let go. She is, after all, attempting to fool her mind with… her mind. 

She’s trying to release the tension in her scalp when two recollections strike her. The first is Polly, her hand on Betty’s knee, cheerfully imparting the information _The football team thinks I’m easy_. The second is Archie, walking her home from Pop’s after her birthday party, all but flat-out admitting that Jason Blossom has a history of bullying. Of bullying Jughead, specifically. Putting both of those things together, “kind of a dick” sounds like a relatively mild way to describe Jason. 

And yet, Polly had really been in love with him. That’s the thing Betty can’t figure out. Polly was really in love with Jason, and from what she had seen of the two of them, it seemed like Jason was in love with Polly too. But how could her sister have fallen in love with a bullying slut-shamer? Or, if Jason had changed, what on earth could he have done to Polly that would necessitate her going into inpatient psychiatric care? Why had she never tried to sit Jason down and interrogate him about his feelings for Polly?

Despite the many warnings she’s read about using electronic devices right before bed, Betty grabs her phone again and sends two quick texts. One is to Polly—or really, to let her parents know she’s not giving up on contacting Polly; she knows Polly must not have control of her phone. The other is to Jughead, and simply says _good night_. 

Then she pulls her blankets up to her chin, closes her eyes, and thinks: _Oh, Polly, what the hell did you get yourself into?_

By Friday, she’s made up her mind. She gives it the day just to be sure, and wakes up before seven on Saturday morning full of energy, a sure sign that her decision is the correct one. 

One jog around campus and one quick stop at a local coffee shop later, she’s knocking carefully on Jughead’s door, trying not to dislodge anything from the cardboard tray in her hands. Jughead answers hatless and wearing pajamas, at which point it occurs to her that some people sleep in on Saturdays. 

“Sorry. Did I wake you up?”

He makes a dismissive sort of gesture, as if to tell her not to worry about it, and stands aside to let her in. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Betty?” 

“I’ve been thinking.” As she passes through the door, she tips her chin towards the paper cup on the left side of the tray, which contains a black coffee. “That’s for you.” 

He pulls the left cup from the tray, but seems more interested in the one on the right. “Thanks. Uh, since when do you drink coffee?”

“Since I started making twenty pots a day. An iced latte sounded good this morning. Pastries are in the bag.” 

Betty puts the tray down on the desk under Jughead’s bed, grabs her latte, and whirls the second desk chair around so she can straddle it, leaning her arms across the back. By the time she’s seated comfortably, Jughead has donned his hat and bitten into a croissant. 

“So I’ve been thinking,” she repeats.

“That’s always a dangerous habit,” Jughead mutters, through a mouthful of croissant. 

“Dangerous but necessary.” She leans over the chair back, just a little, and deliberately widens her eyes. “I think we should go back to Riverdale next weekend.” 

Jughead’s eyebrows go up, but he says nothing. 

“I have all these questions. I need to know what’s going on with Polly. I need to know she’s okay.” 

He nods slowly, thinking. “Polly isn’t in Riverdale, though, is she?” 

“No. But I might be able to find some evidence there that points to where she is. My parents are going to visit her, and they’ll be gone overnight,” she adds, realizing Jughead doesn’t know this crucial bit of information. “We could search the house. And—and I feel like we need to know more about Jason’s death. Have you noticed no one’s really written anything about _him_? Everything is just about his disappearance. I think we need to understand who he was.” _Understanding Jason will help me understand my sister_ , she thinks, but doesn’t say aloud. 

By now Jughead’s half-eaten croissant and coffee have been relegated to the desk, and he’s straddling his own chair backwards, a warped mirror image of her own body language. “You keep saying ‘we,’” he observes. 

“Oh. Yeah, I guess I do.” She tries out a hopeful smile, although it’s not at all clear to her whether hopeful smiles work on Jughead. “You are in this with me, right?” 

He doesn’t answer. He’s staring into space, eyes trained somewhere in her direction but clearly focused on nothing. 

Right, then. Time to up her sales pitch. “It’s not just my parents. We could look around Riverdale for ourselves, maybe talk to Kevin’s dad…” She has to bite her lower lip just a little before the last part will agree to come out. “Talk to Archie.” 

Jughead still doesn’t answer.

“I can go by myself if you don’t want to, but…” She shrugs, and Jughead’s eyes up to meet hers. “It would be nice to have you there.” 

(She gets it. She thinks she gets it. She hasn’t figured out exactly what she wants to say to Archie either.) 

He takes a slow breath in, nostrils flaring slightly, and Betty knows he’ll come. 

“Let’s get one thing clear,” he says. The coffee cup’s back in his hand, and he gives its contents a thoughtful swirl. “Are you suggesting we interview _Cheryl_?” 

Betty finds she does not have an answer to that one.

* * * * *

Jughead has to give it to her. He knew this about her already, but Betty Cooper does _not_ do things halfway. Less than thirty-six hours after he’s not-exactly-agreed to go to Riverdale with her (he’s going to go to Riverdale with her), they have a plan. An elaborate plan. This plan has less to do with what Betty intends to accomplish over the weekend and more to do with justifying to their internship why they need to take Friday off.

“Our school newspaper is having a push to collect everyone’s memories of Jason while they’re still fresh,” she explains on Monday, utterly sincere. “The editor wants to have a memorial piece ready to go as soon as school starts. But the newspaper staff is really small, so it’s all hands on deck. It would be so helpful if we could spend the weekend conducting interviews.” 

Not a single adult seems to find anything fishy about this proposal, and they’re given Friday off, no questions asked. 

“Betty,” Jughead whispers, as he follows her down the hall, “we don’t have a school newspaper.” 

“ _The Blue and Gold_ isn’t dead, it’s just dormant. Or, it was.” She turns and smiles at him, and he thinks: _oh, no_. 

“Was?” 

“I emailed Principal Weatherbee yesterday, and he gave me the okay to resuscitate it. I’m the new editor-in-chief.” 

This answers his unasked question about how Betty had been able to lie so convincingly. She wasn’t lying at all. “Again with the ‘we,’ though.” 

“Oh. Well… Weatherbee wouldn’t let me restart the paper without a staff, so I may have told him you had agreed to join.” 

“ _Betty_ —” _The Blue and Gold_ is _not_ the right fit for his voice. 

“I know, I know. You don’t get involved.” She sighs, both pointedly and right at him. “You can quit after this weekend if you really want to.” 

“But not before, eh?” 

“Nope. You don’t want to quit now, anyway.” 

Jughead raises an eyebrow at her. “I don’t?” 

“No. You’re writing something about Jason, aren’t you? Or you want to.” 

They’ve arrived at Acquisitions, and Jughead pauses in the doorway before he heads in. 

“I never told you that.” 

“Aha,” she says, her smile brightening. “My suspicions are confirmed.” 

He’s not going to survive the weekend, and that’s his opinion before he even takes into account the actual logistical problem of figuring out where to sleep. The Twilight projection booth will be out of the question since someone else is obviously working as the projectionist. He’s in no hurry to spend time at his dad’s trailer. He’s exchanged a handful of texts with Archie since the July 4th non-visit, and could probably talk himself into a night the air mattress—but even if Archie didn’t work out the oddity of Jughead spending one night in town with his friend instead of his dad, surely Fred would. 

It’s not a problem Jughead wants to think about, and so he very deliberately doesn’t. He doesn’t particularly want to think about what state his friendship with Archie is even in right now, so he doesn’t think about that either. More and more, it’s starting to look like he’ll leave all the interviewing to Betty, and spend his entire trip wandering aimlessly around Sweetwater River. At least it’ll be warmer than when he was doing that in January. 

“I actually have a few questions for you, Jug,” she says on Monday night. “About Jason. Specifically, what Jason might ever have said in… well, in locker rooms.” 

This causes an immediate tension headache. “Betty, what would Jason have said in locker rooms?” 

“I don’t know. Did you ever hear anything?” 

“No.” He has literally no idea what Betty thinks _happens_ in locker rooms. “No, of course not.” 

“Hmm.” After a moment or two, Betty looks up from her small, but increasingly larger, pile of notes. “Okay. Do you, um—do you remember when I tried out for the River Vixens last year, and it was kind of a huge disaster?” 

“I remember you tried out, yeah.” He remembers the disaster part, too. Undoubtedly a better person than he would not, upon being reminded of this, immediately start directing telekinetic rage at Cheryl Blossom in her time of mourning. But he is not a better person than that. 

“Well, it was a disaster. Polly wasn’t at my audition, but she tried to cheer me up afterwards at home. I kind of put it out of my mind that she said this, but—but she said something really strange. She said ‘The football team thinks I’m easy.’ Just like that, like it wasn’t a big deal.” 

“Okay…” 

“Like it was just this neutral fact.” She frowns. “So, I want to know what the football team is talking about behind closed doors.” 

A snort pops out of Jughead before he can stop it. “Sorry,” he says, at Betty’s look of annoyance, “but you realize I’m the last person the football team is going to include in that kind of talk, right?” 

“Actually, I thought Kevin and Dilton Doiley might be lower on the list. What?” She shrugs. “It’s not like—Jughead, I know you wouldn’t participate in—in slut-shaming, or whatever it is they’re doing. But you’re observant. You might have overheard them talking. Not necessarily after football practice, but like. Maybe after gym class?” 

He shakes his head. “On top of my lifelong devotion to spending as little time in locker rooms as humanly possible and not acknowledging anyone in them when I can’t avoid being there, as well as the fact that Archie is literally the only student athlete who even tolerates my presence, you’re forgetting something. Jason’s two years ahead of us. We don’t have gym at the same times.” 

Betty lets out a deep exhale. “That’s true.”

He sees her point, though. Whatever the football team is talking about behind closed doors is very likely to be useful information. 

“Do you think Archie would know?” she ventures, before shaking her head. “No. He wouldn’t put up with that, if he heard it. He wouldn’t, right?” 

Jughead shakes his head; Archie may be an idiot, but he’s not like _that_. “And he’s only on the freshman football team. This is probably more of a varsity thing.” 

“Do you think we should try asking him anyway?” 

They decide, tentatively, that they should, if only because neither of them is particularly keen to ask that particular question of anyone on the varsity team. 

“And I’ll ask Kevin,” she says, though she sounds doubtful that it’ll help. “I need to talk to him anyway. We should try to have lunch with his dad while we’re there.” 

And then, as if the intricacies of a 48-hour whirlwind research trip, a confrontation with Archie, and the prospect of spending time with the town sheriff weren’t enough to contend with, Tomoko shows up at dinner on Tuesday looking like she’s going to explode. 

“The email isn’t going out until tomorrow,” she says, “so don’t tell anyone I told you already.” She’s been working in marketing and publicity. Jughead cannot think of a single PR event that would warrant any degree of excitement, until Tomoko drops a bomb that sends Betty into a state of near-catatonia. 

In just two weeks, Toni Morrison is coming to campus. 

“The reading will be open to whoever fits in the auditorium,” Tomoko tells them, “but there’s going to be a little cocktail party reception kind of thing afterwards. Really small. We’re _definitely_ invited.” 

Marcy shrugs. “I’d rather meet Octavia Butler.” 

“Isn’t she dead?” asks Tomoko, and Marcy shrugs again. 

“I’m not going to cry,” declares Betty, who is already crying.

* * * * * 

As promised, Jughead shows up at her door on Friday morning packed for their weekend adventure. They talk back through most of their strategic points over breakfast, then hike to the bus station.

“Seven hours, huh?” she asks as they climb aboard an ancient Greyhound. Jughead claims a window seat, sprawling himself into the little corner between the chair back and the window. Betty hesitates for a moment, unsure whether she should take the seat right next to him or the one across the aisle. The bus is fairly crowded already—this clearly isn’t the first stop—and some of the other patrons are looking a bit unsavory, so she decides to stick with the known. 

“Seven hours,” Jughead confirms. If he’d been hoping for more room to himself, he doesn’t show it. “Sorry, Cooper. I forgot to pack Mad Libs.” 

“There’s always Twenty Questions,” she says. “Or I Spy. Or Truth or Dare.” 

“Truth or Dare hardly seems like a good road trip game.” 

Betty shrugs. “Polly and I used to play on long car rides. Flicking spitballs into my mom’s hair is a pretty major dare.” 

“I don’t doubt that.” 

The bus lurches away. Betty spends the first fifteen minutes or so watching the world pass by their window. 

“I spy with my little eye something starting with the letter G,” she says, when she starts to get bored (there’s a grain silo off in the distance). Jughead doesn’t respond, and when she looks up at his face, she sees he’s fallen asleep in his little corner—mouth open, almost but not quite drooling. 

For some reason, she thinks, it’s endearing. Then her own eyelids start to droop. 

When she wakes up an hour later, Jughead’s typing away on his phone. 

“Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty,” he says, not bothering to look at her. 

Betty pulls her ponytail holder out and smooths her hair back into place before she twists the elastic back in. “Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty yourself.” Jughead shoots her a funny look. “What? You were out first.” 

“Well, anyway.” He shuts off his phone screen and shoves the device back into his pocket. “We’re definitely, one hundred percent, he absolutely promises or else so help him god we can kill him and sell his Xbox for drug money, having pizza with Archie tonight.” 

“And you believe him?” 

Jughead turns both palms over, lifts his shoulders, and turns them back. “I guess? I mean. Up until what, a month ago, he—”

“Was completely reliable,” she finishes, sighing. “Or, almost completely reliable.” 

They fall silent. Betty’s mind is full of questions for and about Archie, and her circuits must overload because soon she’s dozed off again. When she wakes up, Jughead’s buried in _The Parable of the Sower_ , headphones in his ears. Betty pulls her diary from her backpack, along with a pen, and—trusting that Jughead isn’t the kind of person who’ll try to read over her shoulder—starts trying to make some sense of the Archie situation. 

Their bus pulls into Riverdale’s depot right around five-thirty. Her parents will have left by now, but Betty dials her dad’s cell phone just to be sure. 

“You’re calling us early tonight, honey,” he says, without preamble. 

“Oh, we’re about to head out for a pizza party. Didn’t want to miss you. How’s Polly? Have you seen her yet?” 

“We just left the _Register_ a few minutes ago. We won’t see her until tomorrow.” 

“Oh, okay. Well, uh… call me when you get to the hotel, okay? Let me know you’re there safely?”

Hal doesn’t seem to find anything suspicious about this request, and _aha_ , Betty thinks; if nothing else, she’ll know how long the drive from Riverdale is. 

_Search radius_ , she mouths to Jughead, who actually looks impressed. “Good sleuthing, Sally Lockhart.” 

Betty grins, hangs up the phone, and cracks her knuckles. “Oh, I’m just getting started.” 

By the time they’ve walked to her house, Betty is starving, despite the sandwiches they picked up in Albany. If she’s this hungry, she can’t imagine how Jughead must be feeling. Maybe food will improve the bad mood he’s been in since some huge motorcyclist passed just a little too close to them as they walked past the post office. 

“So should we order now, or wait until we actually see Archie?” she wonders. Her parents haven’t left the fridge particularly well stocked, but at least there are some sodas in the back; she grabs a couple and passes one to Jughead. 

“Now,” Jughead says at once; he’s been peering through the blinds. “I just saw Fred’s truck pull up. We should probably go ambush him.” 

“Right. Um… Jughead? Could you maybe—I’ll be downstairs in two minutes, I promise. I just want to… I’ll order first.” He nods and heads out, and with a slight sinking feeling, Betty thinks: _oh god, am I that obvious?_

It has somehow never occurred to her to wonder whether her feelings for Archie are so obvious that Jughead might have picked up on them. Clearly, he has. 

As she heads upstairs with her backpack, she wonders something else: why should this be bothering her? 

She orders a couple of pizzas right away, then splashes a little water on her face and reapplies a subtle amount of makeup. She throws a clean shirt on and tells herself it’s only because she sweated through her other one on the bus; she throws a skirt on, and tells herself it’s because the clean shirt doesn’t go with her shorts. She brushes her hair out, then ends up pulling a few strands back behind her ears and clipping them in place; this, she tells herself, is to disguise her ponytail holder indentation. She’s not going to make an _effort_ , though. Not beyond whatever this is. 

(She still looks like herself, and whether that’s a good or a bad thing is anyone’s guess at this point.) 

And then she walks downstairs and Archie’s leaning against the kitchen counter. Her brain erases _almost_ every last crumb of irritation, and she immediately regrets not making more of an effort. 

(Which is dumb. She knows that. Also, it wasn’t like she had time to curl her hair or anything.) 

“Hey, Betty.” 

“Hey, Archie.” 

Jughead obviously grabbed Archie before he could shower; he’s changed into a clean shirt, but underneath the faint tones of dryer sheets, he smells…god, she doesn’t even know. _Masculine_ is the only word that comes to mind. He starts to wrap her in a big bear hug, and _oh, god_. As she gets squished into to his chest, she realizes he’s about halfway to being completely jacked. It’s not a physique Betty previously knew she liked, but…she kind of likes it. 

“So,” Archie says. 

“So,” she echoes. 

“So what have you been up to?” Jughead asks bluntly. 

“Oh, you know.” 

“No,” says Jughead, still blunt, “we _don’t_.” 

“Nothing super interesting. Working for my dad. Working on my music. Hey, are there more sodas?” 

Betty digs around in the fridge for a third soda; Archie downs most of it in one gulp and then looks furtively back and forth from her to Jughead, as though daring them to ask him any questions when he might be at risk of belching. 

The pizza party does not improve from there, not even when the pizza arrives. All the pizza does is shift things, so that Archie mumbles with his mouth full and Jughead starts emphasizing all his little barbs through pointing uneaten crusts at Archie. 

(And then eating the crusts, because he is, after all, Jughead.) 

“I’m going to go wash my hands,” Betty says, after she’s nibbled her way through two slices, and pushes back from the table before either boy can acknowledge her. Once in the hall bathroom, with its familiar fluffy towels and decorative hand soaps, Betty locks the door and leans against it, drawing a few deep breaths to steady her nerves. 

Slowly, she unfolds her fingers. There are eight small indentations in her palms, but they’re skin-colored, not scarlet. She washes and dries her hands, then smooths her palms against her skirt and steps back into the hallway. 

“…really shitty that you blew off the trip,” Jughead is saying. “Four times. Four days in a row, Archie.” 

“I know. I _know_. I just—” Even from two rooms away, she can hear the force of Archie’s exhalation. “I’ve been going through some stuff.” 

“Oh, _you’ve_ been going through some stuff.” 

“Yeah, Jughead, I have. You know, you don’t have a monopoly on _going through stuff_.” There’s a brief pause. “Jug, I don’t know what you want me to say here! I’m sorry I fucked up, okay? But you—you know, you just kind of disappeared on me.”

“And it took you almost two weeks to notice I wasn’t in Riverdale.” Jughead’s voice is quiet, almost dangerous. 

“Well, you basically didn’t talk to me the last two weeks of school, and I never got an explanation on that,” Archie replies, and the thought hits Betty hard: _he doesn’t know Jughead’s mom left_. 

She does not want to hear any more of this, and yet, she cannot bring herself to re-enter the kitchen and interrupt them. 

“Yeah. Fine. Look, this…this was probably inevitable.” There is so much hurt, so much bitterness in Jughead’s voice that Betty’s heart seizes up, and that’s even before he adds, “But you know I wasn’t the only friend you stood up that weekend, right?” 

She forces a smile onto her face and marches into the kitchen as though she hadn’t heard a single word. 

“I bet there’s ice cream in the freezer,” she says brightly. Too brightly. So brightly that both boys seem surprised to see her there, even though they were just talking about her. “Who wants dessert?” 

Jughead stabs a pizza box with one last uneaten piece of crust. Archie stares at nothing and everything. 

“I should go,” he mutters. “Betts, thanks for the pizza. We’ll—we’ll talk soon, okay?” 

She lets him go. 

She lets him go, and shoots a look of concern at Jughead, who’s still trying to murder the pizza box. 

She lets him go, but thirty seconds later she’s striding across her front lawn, scared out of her mind but knowing, somehow, that she needs to finish what he didn’t let her start over the Fourth of July. 

“Archie.” 

He stops in his tracks. “Betty, I…” 

“Why did you stand us up?” she demands—though her voice comes out all soft, not demanding in the slightest. 

“I wanted to come. I really did.” He’s got that pleading puppy dog look in his eyes, like he’s a redheaded human Vegas begging for table scraps. “It just didn’t work out.” 

“That’s not good enough,” Betty finds herself saying. “Archie, we’re your _friends_. You don’t just let things not work out. You fight for them.” 

“How? I mean—I’m so happy you guys both got this internship thing. I am. But Jughead—I don’t know what’s going on with him. I don’t, because he won’t tell me. And you, Betty, I’ve always known you were going to run off and be brilliant and leave me behind someday. I just…it happened sooner than I thought.” 

“I didn’t ‘leave you behind,’ Archie. I was always coming back. You _know_ that.” 

“Yeah, I know. But you weren’t _here_.” 

He shifts, obviously uncomfortable, and starts tugging at the neck of his henley. It’s not that Betty’s trying to look, but the open buttons are right at her eye level—so when the fabric shifts, she gets a glimpse of several slightly round, very purple bruises under his collarbones. 

Betty has never given nor received a hickey, but she can recognize one when she sees it. Or three or four of them, to be more precise. 

Her eyes start filling with tears; she can feel them pre-loading, ready to spill. This is not the time, she tells herself. Her fingers clench into fists. This is not the time. 

But if the time is not now, then when will it be? 

“Archie, can I ask you something?” 

“Yeah, of course. Anything.” 

“Are you…” She has no real idea how to ask. “Are you seeing someone?” 

His facial expression shifts from human puppy to human deer trapped in headlights. “Betts, what does that have to do with anything?”

 _Oh no_ , she thinks; he really, truly does not know. 

“Did you blow us off for her?” 

“No. I mean, yeah, I was kind of with her that weekend. But it wasn’t _why_ ,” he says, switching back to the puppy eyes. “My dad really did need the truck.” 

“Who is it?” 

A look of annoyance crosses Archie’s face. “Why is that important?”

“I just…” It’s not, really, and yet it is, and Betty has to force the next words out before she combusts from embarrassment right there on the lawn. 

“Because I have feelings for you. Romantic feelings.” 

These words appear not to make sense to Archie. While he processes them, Betty imagines what will happen if she actually combusts right there on the lawn. She’ll be dead, of course, but her mother will still kill her twice; once for a public display of emotion over a boy, and once for ruining the grass. For some reason, she finds this image makes it a little easier for her to go on. 

“So I guess I’m just asking because I need to know,” she continues. “I need to know if you could feel the same way, I…” Betty forces herself to take a deep breath. “Do you love me, Archie?” 

“Betts, you know I do,” he says quietly. “I do, so much. But…” 

A lot more words follow that _but_ , and not a single one of them makes her feel any better.

* * * * * 

By the time Betty comes back inside, Jughead has wrapped the leftover pizza in foil and put it in the fridge, a surprisingly involved undertaking since the Coopers have _way_ too many kitchen drawers and he had no way of knowing which one might contain foil. He’s ascertained that there is not any ice cream, not unless there is a secret second freezer somewhere in the house (which seems like a distinct possibility). He has wiped down the counters, put their plates in the dishwasher, and made exactly zero decisions about where he’s going to spend the night when Betty storms into the house. She passes straight by the kitchen and heads up the stairs, making six different facial expressions simultaneously, at least three of which have to do with anger.

Jughead follows at what he hopes is a safe distance, and finds her in what he recognizes as her bedroom, curled up in a window seat with her forehead leaning against the glass. He hovers in the doorway, realizing too late that he’s brought a fucking kitchen towel with him. 

“Betty?” he asks, expecting her to yell at him, or at least ask for privacy. 

Instead, she lets out a little _huff_. “Did you know Archie blew us off because of a girl?” 

No, he did not, although the news somehow doesn’t seem unfathomable. “No. But I can’t say I’m shocked.” 

“He blew us off. Because he’s seeing someone. He spent the weekend with her.” 

“How’d you find that out?” 

“I _asked_ ,” Betty says. “I saw hickeys on his neck, so I asked.” 

At this point, Jughead realizes that the other three facial expressions are variations on heartbreak. 

“And then I told him.” 

“You…” 

She begins playing with the hem of her skirt. “I told him I have feelings for him.” 

“Oh.” 

“He didn’t…he was nice about it. Of course, he was nice about it. He said all the things you’re supposed to say when you’re trying to let someone down easy. ‘I love you, just not like that. It’s not you, Betty, it’s me. I wish I had feelings for you, but I don’t. I can’t give you what you want. You’re so _perfect_ , Betty, you’re so pretty, you’re way too good for me.’” She pauses to draw a shaky breath. “Bullshit.” 

“What’s bullshit?” Jughead asks. It comes out more forcefully than he had intended. 

She looks up, a bewildered expression on her face. “All of it. _All_ of it. I’m not perfect. I hate that word. I’m not too good for him, or anyone.” 

Privately, Jughead thinks _this_ is bullshit; Betty is definitively too good for most people. But it’s like her switch has flicked, and in in the opposite direction it usually goes; instead of an eerie calmness, she has gone one hundred and eighty degrees in the other direction. 

(It kind of suits her.) 

“My whole life, people have expected me to be perfect,” she continues. “Well, news flash—that’s impossible for anyone, and it’s more than impossible for me. Have you looked at my perfect life?” 

Betty gestures wildly around at her surroundings—pink flowers, books, posters. A million snapshots, many of which depict Archie, and many of which are encased in the ghosts of Christmas presents past. 

“I only have, like, four friends, and that’s if Archie is even still my friend after this. I can’t live up to my parents’ expectations, which—that’s not all my fault. No one could, their expectations are _insane_. But I keep trying. Why do I keep trying when I know I’m already broken?” 

What the hell does she mean, _broken_? “Not perfect,” he can understand. But broken?

But Betty’s not done. “And who gives a _fuck_ about being pretty?” she snaps. 

(Jughead’s ears perk up a bit at Betty’s use of the f-word.)

“I’ve heard that all my life. Who cares? It’s such an empty word. It’s _meaningless_. It’s something you say about—I don’t know. Flowers. Flowers are pretty. Decorative boxes are pretty. I just…” Abruptly, her shoulders slump, as though anger was the only thing keeping her afloat and now that she’s run out, she’s deflating. “I’m sorry, Jughead,” she sighs, shaking her head at the floor. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear all my crap.” 

“No,” he says, over the incredibly loud heart that’s hammering away in his chest, “but I want to.” 

Betty looks at him with red-rimmed eyes, the corner of her mouth twisted in an unspoken question.

“If you want to talk about it. Or yell at me. Or, you know, yell at Archie through me.” He shrugs one shoulder, just the tiniest bit. “If you want to, I’ll listen.” 

And _that’s_ when Betty starts crying. She doesn’t sob or become hysterical; she’s just sad and angry all at once, with tears leaking from her eyes. 

Not really knowing what else to do, Jughead crosses to the window seat and sits down on the floor, leaning his back against the shelf part. He puts an arm up next to Betty, realizes he’s still holding the kitchen towel, and hastily throws it aside. 

Before he can put his arm back up on the ledge, Betty’s off the window seat and sinking against him. She nestles under his right arm with only a tiny bit of hesitation, her body hot and shaky and solid, and tucks her chin against him. Tears seep through his t-shirt, wisps of blonde hair threaten to tickle his nose, and Jughead wonders what the hell he ever did to deserve this.

(In both the positive and negative senses of the phrase.)

They sit like that for he doesn’t know how long. Until his ass falls asleep on the carpet and he loses all feeling in both legs. Until the sun has slipped completely over the horizon. Until Betty’s breathing matches the slow, steady rhythm of the thumb he only half realized was stroking her shoulder. 

“I don’t know what I expected,” Betty says, her words vibrating into Jughead’s chest. “It’s not like he’s hesitant about this kind of thing. I was just hoping…” She sighs. “Which was dumb. I don’t want to be anyone’s second choice. But—I guess I was hoping he’d at least tell me what’s wrong with me. Why he—well, why no one—well.” 

“Well?” Jughead echoes, totally lost now. “Well, what?” 

“It’s stupid. I know I’m not, it’s not—god, this is embarrassing. I should shut up.” She lets out a frustrated sigh that does, indeed, also sound embarrassed. “I’m pretty. I’m not… _desirable_. And don’t you dare say something like ‘Oh, no, Betty, that’s not true at all,’ Jughead—” this last bit comes out at auctioneer speed— “or I swear to god I’ll never speak to you again. I don’t need to be appeased.”

Jughead looks down ever so slightly at Betty’s left leg, which is bent at the knee and pressed against his right, and shifts his arm so it tugs the tiniest bit tighter around her shoulders. 

“Betts,” he says, slowly, “Archie is an idiot.” 

Her body shakes once, a single clipped laugh. “He’s your best friend.” 

“So?” Jughead takes a breath, letting the word sit for a moment. “He’s your best friend too, right? That doesn’t mean he’s not an idiot.” 

(Though this is not at all the point right now, he can’t help but wonder, with a tiny pang: _is_ Archie still his best friend?)

They sit like that for another few moments until Betty sits up straight, scooting away a bit, and stretches her neck back into alignment. She runs a finger under each eye, wiping away the last remains of mostly-dried tears. 

“Thank you, Jughead,” she says, the smallest of smiles playing at the corners of her mouth. “I’m sorry I got… weird. But thank you for—for listening.” 

A Herculean effort keeps his voice light as he tells her, “Anytime.” 

There’s nothing he can add to that, because he doesn’t want to be anyone’s second choice either. 

He winds up sleeping in Polly’s bedroom, and feels surprisingly… okay when he wakes up the next morning. Not great, but… okay. 

“It’s the expensive mattress,” he tells his reflection after he’s showered. His reflection is damp and pale and probably mocking him in the foggy bathroom mirror. “Don’t get used to it.” 

But Jughead catches his own eye as he combs the water droplets out of his hair, and he knows: _that’s not it at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments make me as happy as Jughead with pizza (but probably not happier? That boy loves pizza.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: an expansion of Betty's culinary horizons, an unexpected meeting, and Jughead and Kevin agreeing on something for once.
> 
> This is another long one, somewhere in the vicinity of 8600 words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diaphenia is a beautiful iconic spider brooch.

Betty wakes up at the crack of dawn with ink-stained fingers and an unpleasant soreness in her right hand. 

Neither the smudges nor the soreness are surprising, considering how many pages she’d filled in her diary the previous night, trying to work out, work _through_ , exactly what had happened. No, the surprising part is that she’s awake at all—or maybe that’s not surprising either. She had never exactly gotten to sleep. Every fiber of Betty’s being begs her to crawl back under the covers, head and all, and stay there for the rest of her life. 

But then she thinks of Polly, and knows she doesn’t have time to be self-indulgent. They only have today; really, they only have until early afternoon, because the bus back to Brook Glen leaves just after two. Calculating exactly how many hours that gives them seems impossible right now. Her brain is heavy with some sort of thick gray fog that may or may not be sadness; her eyelids feel like sandpaper, and her limbs each weigh twice as much as usual. None of this changes the fact that Polly probably needs her, or that she definitely needs Polly. 

She’s showered, dressed, and halfway through drawing up today’s agenda when she hears Jughead stir upstairs. Betty pauses in her note-taking for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, as though doing so will somehow tell her how to approach what will inevitably be the most awkward morning of her life. The shower goes on, which is a relief; she figures that will give her a few minutes to make sure her head is on reasonably straight. 

God, _what_ is she going to say to him? 

Jughead had been nice about the whole… thing. Surprisingly nice. More than nice, in fact; possibly even nicer than she would have been, if the situation was reversed and he’d been the one crying sad, angry tears over a girl. And yet, it had all seemed kind of normal at the time, or as normal as was possible under those circumstances—like she’d been sharing enough stuff with Jughead lately that she might as well have piled her heartbreak on top of it. 

Briefly, Betty imagines trying to explain the night, the decision to unload on Jughead, to… someone. Kevin? It would have to be Kevin, at this point. _I told Archie how I feel, he rejected me, and then Jughead sort of hugged me for an hour while I cried_ is absolutely not a string of facts that she can picture Kevin accepting. 

She starts a pot of coffee just to have something to do, gets lost in watching the dark liquid drip from top to bottom, and is somewhere else entirely when the squeak of old sneakers on the kitchen’s tile floor brings her back to herself. Turning around, she sees Jughead leaning against the counter, exactly where he’d been standing the previous night. 

“You’re not wearing your hat,” is, apparently, what Betty’s going to say to him. Which, she thinks at once, of course he isn’t; his hair’s wet, and surely not even Jughead wears a wool hat over wet hair. 

Jughead reaches a hand up to the back of his head, feeling the spot where hair meets skin. “Striking observation, Cooper. We’ll make a detective out of you yet.” His hand moves forward to push wet bangs out of his face, and he tilts his head to look at her before he’s done running his fingers through. The usual sarcastic tone is back in his voice; it makes everything feel _almost_ normal between them, and Betty finds she could just about weep tears of joy. 

Instead she pours Jughead a cup of coffee and waits until he’s in the middle of a sip before she makes her offer. 

“I can get you my mom’s blow-dryer.” 

She’s rewarded with a half-choke-half-spit take and a slight glare, and sends back a grin in response. 

“I’ve been thinking about breakfast,” she says as she turns to pour a second cup of coffee, although she realizes as the words leave her mouth that she has not in fact been thinking about breakfast. “There should be cereal, eggs…pancake mix, maybe?” Does her mother keep a strict count on how many eggs are in the refrigerator? She isn’t sure, but it seems likely. Then again, all four Coopers know that her father’s been known to disrupt the carefully managed food supply. Maybe any missing edibles will be blamed on him. 

When she turns back around, Jughead is halfway inside the fridge. “Pancake mix would be great. That’s what you’re offering, right? Not pancakes, just the mix?” 

“Obviously, I’d turn it into pancakes.” The refrigerator door shuts, and she sees Jughead already has something in his mouth. 

“This is fine,” he mumbles. 

Betty squints across the top of her coffee mug. “Are you eating cold pizza for breakfast?” 

“Sure.” She squints harder, poking out her chin a little because what the hell, and Jughead swallows and sighs. “Do you _not_ eat cold pizza for breakfast?”

“Nope. Never.” 

Jughead casts a glance around the eternally magazine-ready Cooper kitchen. “You probably have the complete breakfast they show on the back of the cereal box every morning.” 

“Cereal and toast _and_ orange juice?” she says, laughing a little. “My mother would have a conniption. That’s an entire day’s worth of carbohydrates right there.” 

For a moment, Jughead looks like he’s about to have a whole lot to say about Betty’s mother’s feelings on carbohydrates. In the end, though, he just holds out the opened aluminum foil packet to her. 

“Breakfast of champions, Betts,” he says seriously. 

It does look pretty good, she has to admit that. “Well, at least let me heat it up.” 

He makes a face at her, and then another one when she turns on the oven instead of just using the microwave, but she stands her ground on the choice of appliance. Twenty minutes later they’re in her parents’ office, where Betty is pleased to discover that she does, in fact, remember how to pick locks with a bobby pin. 

“Impressive, Cooper.” 

Betty grins a little bit at the compliment. “Don’t drip grease anywhere,” she tells him; he’s got pizza and his laptop out on her mom’s desk, ready to do some map searching while she looks through their medical files for any hint of a psychiatric facility name. 

Her dad had indeed called her upon arrival at their hotel last night, though for obvious reasons, Betty hadn’t been paying attention at the time. If her father told the truth in his voicemail, and called right after they arrived, then Polly is somewhere within a four-hour drive of Riverdale. There exists every chance that he lied, that her parents arrived at their destination in less than four hours and took their time to call her, but she has to take him at his word; if the drive was short, why on earth would her parents be staying at a hotel? The prospect of how large this search area really is makes Betty feel nauseated. 

(She’s pretty sure it’s the search area, not the coffee or the pizza for breakfast or a near-total lack of sleep.)

“Please,” Jughead scoffs. “Food near a laptop? This is not my first time at this particular rodeo.” 

Betty pulls out a thick folder labeled _Medical—Polly_ and gets to work. 

An hour and sixteen folders later, she’s found nothing more recent than the physical Polly had to get before she could rejoin the River Vixens at the beginning of the last school year. At that point, Polly was just on the cusp of getting together with Jason, she thinks; there’s absolutely nothing to learn from the paperwork. 

“You having any luck?” 

Jughead looks up. At some point when Betty wasn’t looking, he put the hat on. “I’ve got a pretty decent list of inpatient psychiatric facilities located within a four-hour driving radius that treat minors going.” 

“What’s ‘pretty decent’?” 

“Eight.” 

Betty nods, frowning a little as she does so. “That won’t be too many phone calls.” 

“You think they’re going to tell you anything? I’m pretty sure they can’t release any patient information.” 

“I know,” Betty sighs, “but what else is there to go on?” 

“I feel like I should also point out that I kept the list to American institutions. But a four-hour drive north puts you _pretty_ far into Canada.” 

Betty feels all the blood drain out of her face. “Polly might be in another country?” This is not something she has considered. She has a passport, but her parents keep it in the family fire safe, and _that_ has an electronic lock—not something she can pick with a bobby pin. 

“Yeah. She might even be in a major city in another country, if the internet’s opinions on how long it takes to drive to Montreal and Ottawa are correct.” 

The task of finding Polly suddenly seems exponentially larger, but Betty shakes her head. This is not the time for her snow to settle. 

“Hey, let’s not think that way for now,” Jughead says, flipping his laptop shut as he stands up. “Investigating Canada will be a last resort.” 

Betty agrees with a quick “Okay,” which sounds small and meaningless in her ears. 

“I’m going to pack up,” Jughead says. He squeezes her shoulder on his way out of the office. 

Their morning really does not become more productive after that. Oh, sure, Betty gets all their towels washed and put away, and tidies the kitchen so it doesn’t look like anyone’s been in the house, but is that much of an accomplishment? 

She puts her bedroom back exactly as it was, with one exception: her first edition of _The Bluest Eye_ needs to come back to Brook Glen with her. She glances out her window before she slides the book into her backpack. 

Archie’s curtains are closed. 

“Should we try to stay another night in Riverdale, maybe interview a few more people?” she muses, as they’re walking to Kevin’s house for their late morning coffee/early lunch with the sheriff. They’ve carried the pizza boxes a safe distance from the house to dispose of them, just to be safe. “I mean… I don’t want to talk to Cheryl Blossom, but no one knew Jason as well as she did.” 

Jughead shrugs. “Do you think Cheryl would know anything about Polly?” 

“I have no idea.” The hurt that _this_ question pushes up—the possibility that Cheryl knows more about Betty’s sister than Betty herself does—stings worse than anything Archie could have said. “If we do stay a second night, it can’t be at my house. Do you think your dad would mind if I slept over?”

Suddenly she’s five steps ahead of him. When she turns around, she finds Jughead crouched over, fiddling with one of his shoelaces and determinedly not looking at her. 

“Jughead?” 

After a few seconds that feel extremely prolonged, Jughead stands up. “Look,” he says, appearing to chew on each word before it will come out. “Look, I’m not on very good terms with my dad right now.” 

“Oh.” Betty waits for him to catch up to her; they’ve resumed their course before she speaks again. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

As she expected, two blue eyes shoot a sideways glance at her. “Not particularly.” 

“Okay.” He’s got a backpack strap over his shoulder, so Betty reaches over and gives his forearm a quick squeeze instead. “If you ever want to, though…” 

He nods. Betty watches his throat constrict as he swallows. She hopes he understands that she’s offering to listen because she wants to, because they’re friends, and not because she feels as though she owes him one after last night. 

(She could tell him as much, of course, but she’s pretty sure the words _not because I feel as though I owe you one_ are just going to come out sounding like she feels as though she owes him one.) 

She’s about to change the subject entirely when Jughead squeezes _her_ forearm and says “Thanks, Betty.” 

They walk in silence for another minute. Riverdale doesn’t have much in the way of heat waves, not even in summer, but today’s weather is particularly mild. Foggy, even. Mist emanates from the ground, from the trees; it shrouds the few other people out walking, giving Betty the eerie sensation that they’re being followed. She shakes her head, trying to clear it out. Kevin and Archie are the only people who even know she’s here, and there’s no one in Riverdale who would ever want to follow her anyway. 

“So we definitely need to be at the bus depot by two, then.” She sighs. “I want to talk to Cheryl—I mean, I don’t want to talk to Cheryl, but I think we should.”

“Agreed on all counts.” Jughead looks pensive for a moment, and then says, “Maybe you can arrange an interview over the internet. Then no one has to breathe her air.” 

There’s no time like the present, so Betty—who does not have any contact information for Cheryl beyond her Twitter handle—finds herself making a phone call. “Ginger? Hi.” 

_You’re friends with Ginger Lopez?_ mouths Jughead, and Betty mouths _decorating committee_ back to him while Ginger’s attempts at veiled insults go in one ear and out the other. 

(Ginger is not good at veiled insults.)

“Look,” Betty says, when Ginger’s well has run dry, “do you think you could put me in touch with Cheryl? Tell her I want to talk to her about Jason and Polly.” 

Ginger groans and hangs up on her, but a few minutes later, Betty gets a text from an unknown number. It contains just two words: _Pop’s. Now._

Betty frowns at her phone. “We have to meet Sheriff Keller now.” 

“Didn’t you drag me back here for exactly this purpose?” 

“I didn’t _drag you back_ —” she starts, before realizing what he means. “I didn’t want to split up, though. And we still have to check out the river, which I definitely don’t want to do alone.” 

Jughead checks the time on his phone. “It’s quarter to eleven. You talk to the sheriff, I’ll talk to Cheryl, we’ll meet in an hour. That should give us at least a little time.” 

“Okay,” she says, nodding. “Okay. It’s not ideal, but we’ll make it work.” 

They agree to meet at the point that all the news articles have identified as the spot Cheryl landed her canoe. Hopefully it won't be impossible to distinguish from a million other spots along the riverbank. 

“Wish me luck,” Jughead mutters, just before their paths split. “If I die in pursuit of a story for a school newspaper that I’m not even sure exists, I will come back from the grave to haunt you.”

“Oh, you’ll be fine.”

“I’ll still take a horseshoe or a four-leaf clover if you’ve got one.” 

Somewhere in Betty’s mind there exists a retort that is witty and banter-like, but that is not what comes out of her mouth. “How about this?” she says. “You know the questions we want to have answered. You’re a good listener. That’s all you need.” 

Jughead doesn’t speak for a moment, just tilts his head and looks at her, somewhere between thoughtful and pensive. Which are synonyms, she reminds herself, so…just thoughtful, then. 

“And remember you’re there for more than French fries,” she adds, which causes Jughead to crack the tiniest of smiles. 

“Aye, aye, captain.” 

He salutes her and walks away, and as Betty watches him go, she notices the back of his neck has flushed pink. 

“Betty!” Kevin exclaims, flinging open the front door before she can even knock. “Oh, my god, I’ve missed you. What has this internship been doing to you? You look awful.” 

“Gee, thanks, Kev,” she says as she hugs him. “The internship is fine. Great, actually. I just didn’t sleep much last night.” 

Kevin takes her backpack and hangs it by the door, then leads her into the living room, where they collapse on the couch. “My dad’s running an errand, but he’ll be back in ten. Until that time, tell me everything about your summer.” A thought seems to strike him, and he peers behind Betty as if expecting to find someone standing there. “Where’s the Woodward to your Bernstein?” 

“Jughead? I sent him to interview Cheryl.” Kevin’s eyes become enormous. “What? We only have a few hours before we have to catch the bus back. Time is of the essence.” 

“Okay,” says Kevin, almost wistfully. “It’s just… have those two ever had an actual interaction? That’s a conversation I’d kill to see in person.” He stares out the window for a moment, then snaps his attention back to her. “Anyway, dish.” 

“There’s nothing to dish.” 

“Please. Tell me more of your roommate horror stories. Tell me how great your bosses think you are. Tell me how the eyeliner-wearing is going.” 

“As you can see, I’ve given up on that last one,” she says, laughing a little before she remembers that she does, indeed, have some devastatingly interesting personal gossip. A tidal wave of feelings she’s been avoiding all day suddenly comes crashing to shore. This must show on her face, because Kevin sits up straighter. 

“Betty, what?” 

She takes a deep breath, trying to buy some time to evaluate her own mental state. 

“Elizabeth Cooper—”

“I saw Archie last night,” she says, and Kevin shuts up with an exaggerated mouth-zipping gesture. “He was supposed to come visit us at Brook Glen over the Fourth of July, and he didn’t show. So… last night I asked him why he blew us off.” 

Kevin quickly unzips his lips. “And?” 

“He’s seeing someone. He stood us up for some girl.”

“Oh, no.” He leans over and grabs her hand. “Betty, tell me. One, who is it, and two, do you need me to call out a hit on her?” 

“What? No, of course not. And I don’t know who she is; he wouldn’t say.” She weaves her fingers into Kevin’s, though, and squeezes. “There’s something else, though.” 

Kevin’s jaw drops, in slow motion, like he’s some sort of cartoon character. “Oh, my god,” he whispers. “You _told_ him.” 

Betty nods, also—she feels—in slow motion. “I told him.” 

“And?”

At that moment, Sheriff Keller walks in, offering all sorts of apologies for being late for the _Blue and Gold_ interview, thus relieving Betty of the necessity of coming up with an answer. 

“We will finish this conversation later,” Kevin tells her, using his sternest look. He sits there all through her interview with the sheriff, leaving only to fetch them all glasses of lemonade. The actual “early lunch” part of their planned early lunch meeting never materializes. Nor, unfortunately, does any useful information. Sheriff Keller merely repeats what she’s already gleaned from various news reports. 

But then, Betty wonders, how exactly did she imagine interviewing the sheriff was going to help her find her sister anyway? She can’t even ask if Sheriff Keller thinks there’s any possible connection between Jason’s death and Polly’s going into treatment. Whatever Polly’s going through, she deserves to talk about it on her own terms when she’s good and ready; Betty’s breathed nary a word of it to anyone except Jughead. 

She gets some good quotes for her _Blue and Gold_ article, at least, as well as some extraordinarily impatient facial expressions from Kevin. 

When the interview is over, she stands, shakes Sheriff Keller’s hand, and heads for the front door with Kevin close behind her. 

“I really have to run, Kevin.” 

“And I have to start my lifeguard shift in twenty. That doesn’t mean you aren’t going to tell me how your evening ended.” 

Betty sighs, shrugging her shoulders as hard and high as she can before letting them drop slowly. “There’s not much to say. He doesn’t feel the same way about me. I don't think he's ever going to feel the same way about me.” 

Kevin freezes in place for moment, a thoughtful eye fixed upon her. “Aside from the fact that you look like death warmed over, you seem way more okay than I would have anticipated.” 

“Yeah, it probably doesn’t hurt that I was already mad at him for blowing me off the previous weekend. Blowing _us_ off,” she says, quickly correcting herself. “I am sad, though. I’m really, really sad.” 

Kevin wraps her in a brief hug. “Oh, girl. You know Archie’s an idiot, right?” 

_Funny_ , Betty thinks. “Yeah, I know.” 

She bites her tongue before she can tell Kevin _You know, Jughead said the same thing._

* * * * * 

Despite the very real misgivings he’d voiced to Betty, the prospect of talking to Cheryl Blossom does not fill Jughead with fear for his own life or physical safety. The dread he feels increasing with every step he takes closer to Pop’s is more… _existential_. Or something. How the hell is he supposed to interview someone who is both in mourning and expecting to see Betty? Someone who may or may not even know who he is, beyond the weird kid who glares at people from various corners around the school?

He is definitely getting French fries. 

Cheryl’s already in a booth in the back when he gets there, facing away from the door. After nodding a quick hello to Pop Tate (and requesting a coffee and French fries), Jughead plops down across from Cheryl. Her eyes narrow when she sees him. 

“Scram, Silent Bob. You’re not on today’s menu.” 

And they’re off to an auspicious start. “Afraid I am. Betty got hung up. I’m here on her behalf.” 

“Oh, really? And what, pray tell, do you have to offer me?” 

Jughead remains silent, not really sure what Cheryl means by this. Hell, he’s not even sure Cheryl is in any sort of mourning; she’s dressed in black, but he can’t discern any other signs of outright grief. She folds her arms on the table and leans forward, tapping eight bright red fingernails sequentially on the chipped Formica. After a few seconds, she straightens up. 

“Thought so. Look, I came for information, and you…” She stands up, making a show of flipping her long, red hair over her shoulders, and starts walking away. “You know nothing, Jon Snow.” 

Jughead takes a deep breath. “I know you didn’t like Jason dating Polly Cooper.” He doesn’t, actually; it’s an educated guess. It also seems to be an accurate one, judging from the fact that Cheryl’s stilettos fall silent. 

“So what if I didn’t?” 

“So that means you need to talk to Betty. Or me, since I’m here.” 

A moment later, Cheryl’s sitting back across from him, the glint in her eyes matching the one on her spider brooch.

“Betty’s in love with Archie Andrews. Don’t deny it.” She holds up a hand to silence him, although he hadn’t been planning to deny anything and, frankly, has no idea what Betty’s feelings for Archie have to do with either Jason or Polly. “We all know it’s just a matter of time before Archie realizes his tastes run milquetoast. What exactly is your stake in this investigation, Mr. Perpetual Third Wheel? Trying to veer her off course so you don’t have to share your only friend?” 

“Ouch,” Jughead says mildly, though a giant jagged rip has opened across his torso and his guts are now spilling across the floor. (Cheryl Blossom is not bringing out his dramatic side.) “Betty’s rebooting the _Blue and Gold_.” 

“The school paper?” Cheryl says, over one arched red eyebrow. 

“She wants to have a tribute to Jason in the first issue. I’m helping her write it. That’s my stake.” 

Cheryl considers this for a moment, then shakes her head. “Still doesn’t add up. You don’t get involved in anything but staring contests and ‘90s grunge revivals.” 

“Would you believe sometimes a guy just needs an extracurricular on his transcript, Cheryl?” 

“If it were anyone else, maybe I would.” Cheryl stands again. “Well, Jones, this has been fun. Who knew you’d only be half bad at conversation? But I have better ways to spend my afternoon. Tell that blonde little cow not to waste my time again. I’ll be in touch about Jason’s memorial.” 

She stops to conduct some business at the register on her way out, and then she’s gone in a cloud of red hair and lingering perfume, take-out milkshake in hand. 

Jughead reaches for his laptop. He may not have succeeded in getting Cheryl to talk, but her evasiveness spoke volumes. Volumes written in a foreign language incomprehensible to him, but still. Maybe Betty will have a translation dictionary. 

He’s halfway through a paragraph describing Cheryl’s decidedly un-traumatized demeanor when Pop Tate brings him his coffee, two orders of fries, and a burger. 

“I didn’t order that,” he says. 

Pop Tate shrugs. “Compliments of Miss Blossom.” 

Jughead stares at the door, at Cheryl’s absence, and wonders: _what the hell?_

“Give me a wave five minutes before you go,” Pop Tate adds. “She put in a takeout order for you, too.”

* * * * * 

Jughead’s already there when she arrives at their designated meeting point, a familiar figure silhouetted against the backdrop of a raging Sweetwater River. She’d been a little worried about them finding the _precise_ spot Cheryl’s canoe landed, but this fear turns out to be baseless. Jason’s death might have been ruled accidental; that doesn't mean anyone's bothered coming back to take down the crime scene tape.

“Here I am,” she calls, and he looks up from the pile of leaves he’s been investigating. 

“Hope you’re hungry.” He holds out a Pop’s takeout bag. “This is from Cheryl.” 

“Why would Cheryl send me lunch?” Betty wonders. She’s more tired than hungry, but decides maybe eating will give her energy; besides, whatever’s in the bag smells amazing. She unfolds the thick brown paper and finds a strawberry milkshake, a double bacon cheeseburger, fries, _and_ onion rings. “And jeez, how much does she think I can eat?” 

At that very moment, her phone buzzes with a text from Cheryl. 

“‘The River Vixens send their regards,’” she reads aloud. “What is this, official Crap on Betty Cooper weekend? I got the message already, it’s not like I’m going to audition again.”

Jughead looks as disgusted as she feels, which somehow makes her feel a little better. “Sorry, Betts. I should have thrown the whole thing out. I just—I don’t like wasting food.” 

“It’s fine. It's not your fault. I’d still have gotten the text message, and I’ve been wanting a Pop’s milkshake anyway.” She puts the onion rings back in the bag before pulling out the shake. “So what did you find out?” 

He shakes his head, and they start walking around, looking for—well, Betty’s still not sure. Clues. “Not much. Cheryl wouldn’t talk to me. She said she’d be in touch with you about the article.” 

“Did you push her?” 

“Of course. I mean, I tried to. I don’t think Cheryl Blossom capitulates.” 

“Well, what did you say?” 

“I wrote it all down afterwards. I’ll show you when we’re on the bus. The main thing is, she said _she_ was there for information.”

“About Polly and Jason?” Jughead nods, and Betty thinks for a moment. “So I guess we can assume Cheryl doesn’t know Polly’s…wherever Polly is. Did you tell her anything about that?”

“No.” He pauses for a moment, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck as he stares into the woods. “There’s something else. I know everyone grieves in their own way, but Cheryl was _not_ acting like someone who just lost a beloved brother.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“She didn’t seem upset about it. At all.” 

In response, Betty takes a big sip of milkshake and tries to make this information compute. She can’t. She can’t make sense of anything, and they’re running out of time. 

“How was your interview with Sheriff Keller?” 

“About the same, in terms of useful information,” she sighs. “We’ll swap notes when we're on the bus. For now, though, we should get to business here.” 

“Right. And we’re looking for what, exactly?” 

“I don’t know. I was kind of thinking we should walk upstream a little, retrace the Blossoms’… well, not their steps. But you know what I mean.” 

Jughead nods, and they start hiking upstream. If nothing else, Betty thinks, they’ll be able to give their article a sense of setting. She tries to shape her observations into sentences she’ll remember later, then decides that she might as well take notes while she’s here, and stops to pull a notebook from her bag. Once it’s in hand, she realizes she can’t very well take notes while she’s holding onto the Pop’s bag, let alone a bag and a milkshake. 

“Want me to carry that?” Jughead asks. 

“No. I’ll just shove it in my backpack and deal with my clothes smelling like French fry grease later.” 

At this, Jughead wrests the takeout bag from her hands and removes his own backpack. 

“I can carry my own—”

“I know you can,” he interrupts. “My clothes already smell like French fry grease.” 

Betty knows for a fact that this is not true—Jughead’s clothes smell like Tide, same as hers—but she doesn’t protest further. 

They walk upriver for about half a mile, forgoing conversation. Everything is quiet; tranquil, even, save for the rush of water over some particularly rocky parts of Sweetwater River. Betty’s lived here all her life, has grown up exploring these woods, and yet there’s still so much to take in. Jughead seems to think so, too; he keeps glancing into the tree line behind them, as though he expects Jason Blossom to materialize in the woods. 

Wouldn’t _that_ be a story, thinks Betty, and she smiles at the idea. 

They’ve walked another quarter mile or so when Betty decides to pause for a moment. She closes her eyes, and simply listens: to that rushing, gurgling water; to the slight summer breeze that blows through the trees; to Jughead’s ancient sneakers, soft on the grassy ground; to her own breath and pulse, which seem both intertwined and out of sync. The weight of her backpack pushes down into her shoulders. She breathes in for four and out for eight, and feels her pulse start to slow. 

For a few moments, Betty remains in a blissful sort of stasis. But then it ends, with a rushing combination of sounds indicating that Jughead is coming closer. First his footsteps get louder, then she hears his breath, jagged and shallow. Her eyes jolt open when he touches her left bicep; they’ve been closed long enough that he doesn’t immediately come into focus. 

“We have to go,” Jughead says, a note of fear in his voice. “Now.” 

“Why?” He’s already stalking off, and Betty scrambles to catch up. “Jughead, what—”

“Are you really going to try and outrun me?” calls a voice in the distance, and Betty’s blood runs cold. “That’s not a good idea, kid.” 

By now her eyes are focusing just fine. She looks in the direction of the voice, and sees a dark-haired, sort of scruffy man standing not too far out of the trees. Whoever he is, he’s alone; or at least, she can’t see anyone else. If he's trying to hurt them (oh, god, is he trying to hurt them?), one person might have a chance, if they run in different directions. But then, that plan might not work, considering that Jughead is now improbably trying to shield Betty from view. 

“Jughead, come on,” calls the man. 

“You know him?” she mutters; she doesn’t get a response. 

The man starts walking towards them, and Betty thinks: _he walks like Jughead_. She looks from one to the other, comprehension beginning to dawn. 

Jughead, who’s also been looking back and forth, seems to read this on her face. His own expression changes from some combination of frightened and determined to some combination of frightened and resigned, with more than a touch of what is clearly an effort not to have any expression at all. 

His voice is quiet. “Remember this morning, when I told you I’m not on very good terms with my dad?” She nods. “Well…that’s my dad.” 

He starts walking towards his father, jaw set, like he wants to get this over with as quickly as possible. Betty follows, wracking the deepest recesses of her memory. She’s known Jughead for what seems like forever; she _has_ to have met his parents at some point before now, but no particular occasion is coming to mind. She can bring forth images of a younger Jughead arriving various places, but… 

But always with Archie. The car he climbed out of was driven by Mary Andrews. Maybe not every single time in their lives, but every single time that Betty remembers. 

An almost unbearable sadness settles on Betty’s chest. 

“You didn’t tell me you were mixed up with a girl,” says Jughead’s dad, when they get closer. He casts an eye over Betty, and she looks back at him. Her first impression was correct. He’s definitely scruffy, with uncombed (and possibly unwashed) hair and a few days of stubble on his face. His clothes aren’t exactly filthy, but neither are they clean. 

“I’m not _mixed up with a girl_.” Betty looks back over at Jughead, who now appears to be actively trying to sink into the ground. “Dad, Betty. Betty, my dad.” 

_Everything_ in Betty’s life has prepared her to make good first impressions—on any parent, under any circumstances. She switches on Parent Mode: her brightest smile, her best handshake. _Look how wholesome I am, I’m the kind of gal who carries a pink milkshake around in the woods._

(Betty does not always love herself in Parent Mode, but at least she knows that it makes her into some sort of force to be reckoned with. The force is admittedly a nonthreatening one, but it’s a force nevertheless.) 

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Jones.” His hand is rough and callused around hers, and she notes a whiff of cigarette smoke emanating from his general direction. “I’m Betty Cooper.” 

“Betty Cooper,” says Mr. Jones, swirling her name around. “Call me F.P. You Alice Cooper’s daughter?” 

She nods. “You know my mom?” 

“Knew. Past tense. We went to high school together.” 

“Everyone in Riverdale went to high school with everyone else in Riverdale,” Jughead says, rolling his eyes. “Dad, what do you want?” 

“I want to know what the two of you think you’re doing.” 

“Walking.” 

“Around these woods?” F.P. shakes his head. “You’re not even supposed to be in Riverdale. Now, I can’t say I’m surprised you didn’t tell me you were back in town—” He holds up a hand, stalling Jughead’s obviously forthcoming interruption, and turns to Betty. “Jug’s embarrassed of his old man, if you hadn’t picked up on that. But what are you doing _here_?” 

Betty decides this might be a good time to chip in. “We’re researching an article for the school newspaper. A tribute to Jason Blossom. So we thought we should see where he…well, where he died.”

F.P. raises his eyebrows at Jughead. “You joined the school paper?”

“It’s a long story,” Betty says. 

“Why is _everyone_ so surprised by this?” Jughead mutters to no one in particular. 

“Look.” F.P. glances around, searching for something he doesn’t seem to find. “This is not the place for you to be wandering around, okay? Not these woods. Not right now.” 

“Dad, what are you talking about?” 

“Go back to Brook Glen,” F.P. says, his voice gravelly and serious. “You took the bus here? Come on. I’m driving you back to the depot.” He starts walking in the direction of the woods. Jughead does not immediately follow, and Betty, taking her cue from him, stays put too.

It doesn’t take long for F.P. to notice they’re not following him, of course, at which point he asks Betty for a moment alone with his son. She nods and steps back a dozen paces. The two talk in muted tones. After a few moments, Jughead looks at her and jerks his head towards the trees. She nods again, and the three of them start walking. 

Odd as the circumstances are, Betty finds she’s still stuck in Parent Mode. F.P., it transpires, is just about as bad at small talk as his son, but even without much help from either of them, Betty manages to keep up a steady, cheerful stream of chatter about their internship. 

“So this whole thing is a big deal, huh?” F.P. asks, after Betty’s breathlessly covered the upcoming Toni Morrison event. 

“It’s a great program,” Betty assures him. “Really well-regarded.” 

“How many people did they turn away?” 

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I do know it’s competitive, though.” She watches F.P. closely as she says it. He’s a hard person to read, but she’s sure a hint of pride crosses his face. 

After about ten minutes, they arrive at a beat-up old pickup. It’s reminiscent of Archie’s dad’s truck, but with an extra layer of rust and a rip in the vinyl seat that’s been repaired by duct tape (this, too, has ripped). Also unlike Fred’s truck, this one sports an uncomfortable layer of beer cans and other assorted trash on the floorboards. 

Betty’s about to climb in the middle seat (which is currently occupied by a heavy leather jacket, satin lining upturned), but Jughead shakes her off, wadding the jacket into a ball before he stuffs it under the seat. A moment later they’re rumbling down a dirt road that Betty knows will take them the long way around town. She checks the dashboard clock, which seems to be broken, and—since her backpack is squished at her feet—decides she doesn’t really need to know what time it is. They’ll get back to the bus depot early enough. 

F.P. cuts the ignition when they arrive, and all three of them climb out. 

“Thanks for the ride, Mr. Jones,” Betty says, Parent Mode still activated. “It was so nice to meet you.” 

He gives her one of those half-smiles she’s seen so often on Jughead’s face, though this one gives her a weird feeling she can’t quite put a name to. “My pleasure, Betty.” 

Jughead stares at his feet, then at a bunch of other places on the ground, and then finally meets his father’s eyes. 

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Thanks for the ride.” The most awkward father-son hug Betty has ever witnessed ensues. F.P. appears to whisper something in Jughead’s ear; she actively tries not to listen, and doesn’t catch what it is. 

Parent Mode switches off as soon as they’re inside the bus depot, and with it goes every last particle of Betty’s remaining energy. She looks at a giant clock on the wall; the fact that it is only 1:09 in the afternoon makes no sense whatsoever.

* * * * * 

They’d purchased round-trip tickets back in Brook Glen, so there’s nothing at all to do until their bus gets arrives. Betty excuses herself to the restroom, taking her bag with her. For lack of anything better to do, Jughead pulls the Pop’s bag from his backpack and takes a risk on a French fry. It’s cold, dry, and utterly devoid of flavor other than fryer grease.

He eats a second one. 

Betty returns from the restroom, and he finds himself squinting at her. 

“I put on a little makeup,” she explains—though he could tell as much. “I thought maybe if I looked less tired, I’d feel less tired.” She collapses in the seat next to him. 

“Is it working?” 

“Not in the slightest.” 

“Hey, did you want this?” He holds up the bag, which Betty seems surprised to see. “It’s cold, but. Still food.” 

“I… yeah, I guess I should eat something.” She accepts the bag, peering inside. “Looks like I should avoid the onion rings, though.”

In the end, she avoids all of it except one hamburger patty. Jughead gets up to throw the bag out. He passes a vending machine on the way to the trash can, and on his way back, digs in his pockets for enough change to get two bottles of water. 

Betty accepts one with a little smile. “Thanks, Jughead.” 

The bus depot clock ticks. It ticks and ticks and ticks. They’re the only people in the waiting room, save the woman behind the counter. The clock continues to tick.

It’s a very loud clock. 

There’s no possible way he’ll be able to avoid the conversation forever. 

“So that was my dad.” 

“He seems nice,” Betty offers at once, before immediately shaking her head. “Sorry. That was a cliché thing to say. He does seem nice, though.” 

“Yeah, he can be.” Jughead finds his hands shaking—not involuntarily, not out of nervousness. It feels more as though he’s bouncing invisible weights, trying to figure out how much it’s safe to toss over to her. “He was on good behavior today.” 

One of her hands finds his wrist. He looks at that for a moment, at Betty’s fingers, and then he makes himself look her in the eye. 

Well, it wasn’t like she could have missed the floor of the truck. 

“He’s an alcoholic,” he says bluntly. 

They both let this confession sit for a moment. 

“Which is why I didn’t want to get in the truck with him at first. He’s not always sober.” 

Betty nods. “I guessed as much.” 

“And he wasn’t wrong when he said I’m ashamed of him.” Jughead automatically steels himself for some sort of negative reinforcement—a disapproving look, a verbal condemnation, a slap across the face—hell, he doesn’t know what. But what actually happens is that Betty scoots a little, turning in her seat, and puts her other hand on his wrist, too, wrapping her fingers under and around it so that she is almost, but not quite, holding his hand. This keeps his hand from bouncing. His foot starts bouncing instead. 

“I guessed that too.”

His foot bounces harder.

“What does he do for a living?” 

It’s a perfectly normal question for anyone to ask. No malice would be intended even if the asker were someone not Betty Cooper. Jughead finds himself scoffing anyway. 

“He used to work with Archie’s dad.” Betty nods a little, as though some long-unused memory has just been activated; of course, she would have heard that at some point in their lives. “Now…” 

His eyes flicker to Betty’s, and he sees that hers are filled with tears. That’s Betty Cooper in a nutshell for you, he thinks: her crazy parents locked up her sister, the idiot she’s always loved just flat-out rejected her, she’s spent all day in pursuit of ghosts, and yet here she is, on the verge of crying in a bus terminal over someone else’s fuckup of a father. 

“I’m so sorry, Jughead.” Despite the tears, her voice is steady. 

“Don’t be. There’s nothing you could have done about any of it.”

She shakes her head a little. “No, I’m sorry that I haven’t been a better friend. I feel terrible for not knowing any of this.” 

“You didn’t know because I didn’t tell you. It’s not your fault.” 

Betty drops his wrist, dabs the corners of her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. “What exactly do you think friendship is?” 

The question knocks into him with such force that his foot’s thrown off its rhythm. 

“It’s not letting other people dump all their crap on you, and you just taking it. Do you remember what you said to me last night, that you _want_ to listen?” 

She pauses for a moment, clearly expecting an answer, so he nods. 

“Well, that goes both ways.” Betty pauses again, and her brow furrows. “Huh. I think I just realized something about myself.” 

They contemplate in silence for a few more minutes, until their bus pulls into the station. Betty takes the window seat this time. She watches the scenery; Jughead watches her watching the scenery (while pretending that he is also watching the scenery, so he doesn’t feel creepy about it). 

Jughead knows perfectly well what friendship is. It’s always showing up for double features at the Bijou on October 2nd. It’s finding the perfect scarf; hell, it’s even finding the perfect picture frame. It’s being upset with yourself because you might have baked the wrong cookies for someone you know is practically a human garbage disposal. It’s risking frostbite on New Year’s Eve and listening to someone tune a guitar for an hour, too. It’s waiting around through hours of football tryouts so you can get a milkshake later, and putting way too much thought into stupid in-jokes, and letting someone cry through your t-shirt. 

It’s also calling someone on their shit, and listening when they call you on yours. 

This last clause, he thinks, is the hardest. 

But he can do hard things. 

Maybe. 

He’s still mulling this over when Betty turns from the window and announces that it’s time to share their field notes. She digs out her notebook; he digs out his laptop, and they swap. 

She skims through quickly, then does a second, closer read-through. After that's done, she looks up. “What makes you think Cheryl didn’t like Jason dating Polly?” 

Right. He hadn’t exactly told Betty that part. She seems more curious than defensive, though. 

“I mostly said it to see if she’d react, which she did.” This is the truth. “But… you know how much I’m at Pop’s, right? I saw Polly and Jason there, together, a few times.” 

“You never mentioned that.” 

He shrugs. “It didn’t seem like a big deal. They were just acting couple-y. Sitting on the same side of the booth, holding hands under the table, kissing when they didn’t think anyone was looking. Anyway, Cheryl showed up once or twice, and when she did, she looked kind of pissed off.” 

“But was she pissed off at Polly specifically?” 

“That, I don’t know. She could have just been… you know. Cheryl.” 

“Did it seem like…” Betty looks to the ceiling, evidently collecting her thoughts. “I’m trying to figure out if Jason really loved Polly. I know she loved him. I _think_ he loved her. But then I think about the terrible things I’ve heard about Jason, and it doesn’t make sense to me.”

“What terrible things have you heard about Jason?” 

For some reason, Betty blushes a dark pink. She bites her lip, takes a deep breath, and looks him in the eye. “I know he wasn’t always nice to you, Jug.” 

Oh. 

“And I can’t figure out how Polly fell for that kind of person. She’s not like that.” She sighs. “Who knows, maybe my parents are right. Maybe Jason really did manipulate her. She definitely started acting different right around the time they started dating.” 

“Different how?” 

“Honestly? At first she just seemed happier. Then my parents found out, and there was a lot of fighting, and—well, then she started acting a little bit nuts. Like, she completely disappeared at the winter dance when she was supposed to give me a ride home. I wouldn’t have thought Polly would do that, either.” 

“So we have a good old-fashioned conundrum on our hands.” 

“She said Jason made her feel _calm_.” Betty closes her eyes, huffs out a breath, and opens them again. “I really just need to find her.” She closes her eyes for a second time. The bus goes over a bump, Jughead’s laptop almost goes flying, and—reaching for it—he sees that Betty’s hands are balled into tight fists. 

“Careful there,” he says, sliding it back onto his own lap. 

Betty jolts upright as if startled, and her eyes fly open. She takes her notebook back. “Sorry. I’m sorry. So, uh, where were we?” 

“We didn’t learn anything about Polly except that she could be almost anywhere including Canada, we didn’t learn anything about Jason, we didn’t even get around to asking about the football team, and Cheryl Blossom acted strange even for Cheryl,” Jughead says, not bothering to tick the items off on his fingers. 

“We also learned that Archie’s got a mystery girlfriend, Sheriff Keller knows basically nothing, and your dad doesn’t want us walking around the river.” She examines her notebook for a second. “God, none of that even seems worth writing down. What a terrible weekend.” 

Jughead takes a deep breath, steeling himself to do something very hard indeed. 

(He can do hard things. He can.)

“No,” he says. “Write down the part about my dad.” 

Betty shoots him a quizzical look. 

“You asked me what he did for a living, before, and I didn’t exactly give you an answer.” 

“Okay…” 

“You can’t tell anyone,” he says. “ _Anyone_. Not even Archie. Actually, especially not Archie.” 

She nods, and Jughead braces himself for the potential end of his second friendship; possibly his only friendship at this point. The bus they’re on has more than adequate air conditioning and there’s no way in hell he should be sweating this much. 

(The hat, he knows. But he’s used to it. This has nothing to do with the hat.) 

“Inasmuch as my dad has jobs, which he often does not, said jobs tend to be—shall we say—not entirely in line with our legal and criminal justice system?” 

“Oh.” About fifteen different possible follow-up sentences visibly whirl through Betty’s mind and across her face. The one that eventually reaches her mouth is “But he seemed so nice.” 

He almost bursts out laughing at the absurdity of this reaction. “Like I said, he _can be_.” 

Jughead watches Betty bite the inside of her cheek, possibly while pondering how the hell she is going to survive the rest of her bus ride; probably while wishing she’d never bothered to apologize for freaking out at him at the beginning of the summer. 

“So you think if something fishy was going on with Jason Blossom,” she says, “he might know about it?” 

“He might. He might not, but he might.” 

“And if you asked, would he tell you?” 

“I sincerely doubt it.” 

Betty writes _F.P. Jones insinuated it was dangerous to walk around Sweetwater River_ , caps her ballpoint pen, and closes the notebook. 

“Are you…” That _can’t_ be it. “Are you not going to…” He has no idea what, really, but something. 

This earns him an even more quizzical look. And air quotes, for crying out loud. Air quotes. “Jughead, are _you_ involved in 'affairs not entirely in line with our legal and criminal justice system'?” 

He shakes his head, and Betty gives him her best _don’t be stupid_ face. 

“Okay, then,” she says. He must still be staring at her like she’s some sort of rare specimen (which, to be fair, she _is_ ) because she does the thing where she’s smiling but the corners of her lips go down. “Look, worst case scenario over here, my parents locked my sister in a mental hospital because they didn’t like her boyfriend. I’m in no position to judge.” 

“Not quite the same thing,” Jughead says. “Also, that seems like a huge oversimplification of the situation.” 

“Jughead.” He’s getting the _don’t be stupid_ face again. This time it’s followed up with a verbal “Don’t be stupid.” 

Sensation has started to return to Jughead’s extremities (he had not previously noticed that it was missing), and his excessive sweating seems to have stopped. Instinct tells him to sigh as loudly as he can and call on the full-force sarcastic voice for an _I’m trying real hard over here, Betts_. 

Instead he just nods. 

Betty seems to find this an acceptable answer, because she pulls out her backpack. The notebook goes in, and her cell phone and a first edition of _The Bluest Eye_ come out. 

“Rereading before the big event?” 

She nods. “Do you think it would be out of line to ask her to sign this?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“I’ll ask our bosses beforehand.” 

There’s a moment in which Jughead can practically feel a tiny elephant parading up and down on the armrest between them. A tiny, muscular, red-headed elephant. 

Betty runs her finger up and down the book’s spine. “Archie gave me this for my birthday.” The elephant disappears. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says, without really thinking about it, which, shit. “I was with him when he bought it.” 

“I kind of figured.” He raises an eyebrow at her, and she shrugs. “You both got me used books, it’s not a huge stretch to imagine you shopped together.” 

For lack of a better response, Jughead wrests his phone from his pocket and checks for stray texts. Or voicemails. Or missed calls. 

“Heard from him?” Betty asks. 

“Nope.”

“Me either.” 

She leans her head on the window and stares at the trees, sadness and disappointment etched onto her features in a way that makes him fucking _ache_. For a brief, flickering moment, Jughead imagines doing something, _anything_ , to brush the sadness off her skin; thinks he wouldn’t even mind being her second choice. But no. _That would be a Pyrrhic victory, you moron_ , he reminds himself, forcing his gaze away.

Still. 

His best friend is an idiot. His best friend, who might not be his friend at all, anymore. 

When he looks back at Betty, she’s asleep, _The Bluest Eye_ perilously close to falling off her lap. Carefully, Jughead eases the book out of her hands. 

He’s never read _The Bluest Eye_. 

There are still more than six hours of bus ride remaining. He flips to the first page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I appreciate all your kudos and comments (which I will totally read through again when I go to work on the next chapter. I am That Person. I also love you all).


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're back in Brook Glen! Featuring: Amateur Historical Sleuthing Hour, the surprise appearance of Peter Parker, and my "WTF why is this canon and why did I go with it" stab at Toni Morrison RPF.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diaphenia is a beautiful fairy tale AU. 
> 
> Thanks also to writing-as-tracey and singsongsung, who have been on the receiving ends of my beleaguered attempts to work out the logistics of the Blossom/Cooper Maple Syrup Blood Feud.

Over the next week—day by day, piece by piece—Betty Cooper’s heart starts to stitch itself back together.

Saturday night finds her back in her dorm bed, listening to her parents’ undoubtedly incomplete report on how Polly is doing (“so much better, Betty, but it’s still best for her to be isolated.”)

On Sunday, Betty lets herself sleep late but wakes up sad anyway. She skips breakfast. She watches half a movie on Netflix, stopping when she realizes she has no idea what the movie even is, and gets dressed only because Morgan brings half a dozen girls over. The last thing in the world she wants to do is brave the dining hall, so she heads downtown instead, opting for a cute little café over the diner.

She gets a salad, but one with fried chicken and extra cheese. It’s that kind of day.

After lunch, she wanders around downtown for a while before finding a quiet, shady spot on campus to think for a while. Eschewing beach towels, picnic blankets, and other Alice Cooper-approved methods for keeping grass stains off your clothes, Betty settles on her back and stares up through the branches of a big elm tree. Mottled sunlight filters through bright green leaves, birds chirp, et cetera.

It’s peaceful, there’s no doubt about that, but she can’t quite find peace.

But then, Betty has never really been built for inaction.

She remembers passing a little boutique that looked like it sold note cards, so she heads back there, picks up two boxes of twelve, and starts writing letters to Polly. She’ll mail Polly in care of every facility in the Northeast if she has to, starting with those on the list Jughead came up with yesterday. The odds of any of these letters even getting to Polly, let alone Polly responding, are incredibly low. She knows that. But she has to try.

 _Finished your book_ , Jughead texts her late in the afternoon, which she appreciates –not because she wants her book back right away, but because he didn’t ask _how are you feeling?_ or, for that matter, just show up at her door with the same question.

(He’s probably more than a little tired of her company right now.)

 _Cool, I’ll get it tomorrow_ , she responds, and then _Did you like it?_

 _I have thoughts_.

Betty sends a smiley face.

She finishes writing her letters to Polly, tucks eight envelopes into her bag, and feels a tiny bit better.

On Monday, she unsurprisingly runs into Jughead at breakfast, where he hands back her book, and they exchange thoughts. Neither of them asks how the other is feeling, and no one brings up Archie, and that decision feels like the right one. She tells Jughead about the letters; he nods and says he’ll keep looking for more places Polly might be.

As after Jason’s death, the rhythms of work—making coffee, sorting mail, hunting down stray apostrophes with her favorite red pen—calm Betty’s nerves in a way that deep breathing and positive thinking simply can’t. Late in the morning, Marcy drops by to say she and Tomoko are going to try a nearby Thai restaurant for lunch; Betty agrees to go at once, on the provision they can walk past the post office.

They also walk past Acquisitions, where Jughead politely declines Marcy’s invitation with the excuse that he wants to do some writing over lunch.

Betty has lost track of the number of times Jughead has skipped out on social occasions over the years; for the first time, she realizes that there are reasons for his antisocial behavior beyond the fact that he’s a basically antisocial person. That ten dollars for lunch here or there is pretty much nothing to her, but probably something to him. It all strikes her as tremendously unfair, but she’s not sure there are any specific actions she might take; even if there were, she knows Jughead wouldn’t want her to.

She won’t propose any more weekend trips just blindly assuming he wants to shell out for a bus ticket, anyway.

As they walk towards the restaurant, Betty finds herself nervous on two accounts. First, there’s no Thai food in Riverdale, so she’s never tried it and she doesn’t know if she’ll like it; second, she’s made a hard decision about her Archie situation. That decision is to talk about the Archie situation with the only two girls she can currently consider her friends—and she needs to do that now, in public but not at work, circumstances under which she will be less likely to cry but won’t embarrass herself in front of her bosses if she does. 

Tomoko surveys the party of two approaching her in the courtyard. “Couldn’t talk Jughead into it, huh?”

“I think he might be sick of me after the weekend.” Betty keeps her voice light. 

Marcy nods. “That’s fair. You’re probably sick of him, too.”

“I guess, a little,” Betty says, although she really… isn’t. “Okay. Can I tell you guys something?”

“Did you find Jason Blossom’s body?”

“What? No, Tomoko, of course we didn’t. It’s about Archie.”

(It’s not that Betty has ever said anything _super_ -explicit about Liking Archie with a capital L to them before, but… they’ve both seen the snapshots on her corkboard and the selfies on her phone, and yes, okay, she might have made Tomoko eye-roll very, very hard once with her description of how _impossible_ it is to walk next to someone and not be brave enough to just hold his hand, and when Marcy had asked if that someone had red hair, Betty had not offered any denials.)

“Oh.” Tomoko sounds vaguely disappointed about the lack of corpse. “Okay. What about Archie?”

“He came over for dinner on Friday night, I told him that I liked him, and he rejected me.”

This marks the third time she’s uttered a variation on these words, and the first time she’s uttered them to people who don’t know her very well or Archie at all. To her surprise, it’s not as hard as she thought it would be. 

“Oh,” says Tomoko, again. “Well. That sucks.”

Betty glances over at Marcy, who looks rather ill. “Wait, you told him just like that? To his face?”

“How else would I have done it?”

“Like…Snapchat? I mean, I probably wouldn’t have the guts to do it over Snapchat either. But in person, no way. Never. I can’t believe you were that brave.”

Betty is sure no one has ever used this word to describe her before, and hearing it now makes her peculiarly uncomfortable. She shakes her head, stares at the sidewalk as they walk.

“I was just being honest.”

“Yeah. Honesty is _hard_ ,” says Marcy.

Neither girl asks how she’s feeling, or wants to know any more details, at which point Betty realizes, with a mild shock, that she is the most romantically sophisticated person in the group. She also realizes that from the outside looking in, Archie’s rejection of her might not look like such a big deal. Tomoko brings the conversation back to their detective work, Betty describes her unsatisfactory interview with the sheriff, and they leave it at that.

She tries pad thai for the first time, and decides it’s okay.

This new perspective (on herself, not on Thai food) helps Betty suture a couple pieces of her heart back together. But if she’s being honest with herself—and she’s trying to be; she’s trying so hard—the biggest assist goes to Jughead. Or, more accurately, what helps is the time she spends with him working on their project. They devote a couple of weeknights to plotting out everything they know on the spare corkboard in his room, connecting photos and newspaper articles and index cards with thumbtacks and different colors of string.

By Wednesday night, it’s perfect.

Seeing their work laid out like this seems to emphasize the fact that they don’t really know anything, but Betty feels a sense of accomplishment nevertheless, and when they’re finally done, she turns to Jughead with her hands on her hips and a smile on her face.

“What?” she says, in response to his tiny smirk.

“Still can’t believe you got up early to print all those photos and buy office supplies.”

“Jughead, if being disorganized is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.”

A bigger smile breaks across his face, and Betty’s heart thumps a single, happy beat.

“What do we call this, anyway?” he asks, ducking a little as he steps closer to the corkboard (which they had not been able to dislodge from under the lofted bed).

“It’s like a murder board.”

“It’s not exactly a murder board. But I guess ‘accidental drowning board’ doesn’t have much of a ring to it.”

Betty moves a few steps closer herself and brushes her hand across the photo she’d chosen to represent her sister, a candid shot of Polly sitting at one of Riverdale High’s outdoor picnic tables in her River Vixens uniform. Then she pulls the nearest desk chair over and sits down, pulling her feet onto the seat and hugging her knees.

“It’s not even all about Jason’s death,” she says.

This is true. What they know about Jason takes up the left half of the board; what they know about Polly spans a much thinner column on the right. Polly’s photo is connected to a printout of Jason’s yearbook headshot by a red string. In the bottom corner of Jason’s half, they’ve put a photo of Cheryl, using a red string between it and Jason’s. For the purposes of their not-murder board, they’ve decided red can mean romantic or fraternal love, and as Jughead pointed out, in the case of the Blossoms, there’s no definite proof of a difference between the two.

(Betty doesn’t want to think about that. She really, really doesn’t want to think about that.)

A green string, indicating potential jealousy, runs between Cheryl and Polly. But running colored strings between photos only demonstrates a connection between Jason and Polly; it doesn’t prove Jason’s death is at all connected to Polly’s... mental health situation.

Of their many pieces of string, only two are white. These connect Jason and Polly to an index card on which Betty’s written _Blossom/Cooper maple syrup feud._

This is the card Jughead examines closely before he crosses the room, plops into the other desk chair, and flips open his laptop. “So what’s the deal with the maple syrup feud?”

“Seriously?” Her eyes roll upwards, as they automatically do every time she thinks about the long-ago incident—but also at Jughead, kind of. “You grew up in Riverdale. Do you really not know this story?”

“Of course I do; it’s local legend. What I’m asking is, is there any relevance to it now, aside from it being the catalyst for your family’s hatred of the Blossoms?”

“I don’t think so. Great-Grandpa Cooper invested in Blossom Maple Farms when it almost went under during the Depression. Then the business really picked up after sugar rationing started during World War II. The Blossoms had always resented an outsider sharing in ‘their’ profits, and they didn’t need him anymore, so they murdered him.” 

Jughead thinks for a moment, then says, “The fact that we included this murder means we did make a murder board.”

“That murder’s been solved. It was never unsolved. Everyone knew Great-Grandpappy Blossom did it; they just covered up enough evidence to make self-defense seem reasonable.”

“We should look into it anyway.” Jughead interlaces his fingers and stretches his arms overhead. “You asked for my help on this figurative yet literal cover story. I think the feud is worth pursuing.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just do.”

The incident still seems, to Betty, like a very faint trail to be following, and she shrugs. “I’ll leave that to you, then.”

“Good,” Jughead says. “That means _you_ get to talk to Cheryl.”

Betty blanches. “She said she’d be in touch. I think I’m going to trust her on that until I run out of other leads.”

* * * * * 

Archie calls him. Out of nowhere.

Archie _calls him_.

Archie calls him, and Jughead stares at the phone for a good three rings before answering.

(He’s been staring at the phone anyway, wondering whether he could work up the courage to either call or text his father with regards to why he was in the woods last weekend, and also why Jughead has just received an envelope of dirty cash in the mail—literally, the cash is covered in dirt—with a note to “get a suit for the author thing.”)

“Archie.”

“Hi,” Archie says. “I was afraid you weren’t going to pick up.”

“I strongly considered not doing so.”

There follows a string of half-sentences that somehow still manage to be convoluted. A bunch of them contain apologetic words.

Inasmuch as the following things are true: that one, until this past year, Archie has been not just his best, but his _only_ real friend, and a very good one to boot; that two, Archie is making something resembling a moderate effort here, even asking tentative questions about what Jughead is up to; and that three, he does actually miss the idiot’s company, Jughead considers forgiving him—or at least initiating the process of forgiveness.

But then Archie has to go and start talking about music, and football, and the possibility of his dad being disappointed if it turns out he doesn’t want the construction business.

Jughead has never blamed Fred for either firing or cutting out his father (he’s not exactly sure which, since there exists in the retelling an inverse relationship between the nature of F.P.’s termination and his blood alcohol level). He has never blamed Fred for not explaining it to Archie; in fact, he’s grateful that Fred has kept Archie in the dark all these years.

But god damn it, would it be so hard for Archie to turn on a light every so often?

It’s not like Jughead _wants_ to take over a construction business. He would just appreciate it if Archie didn’t take the opportunity to do so for granted.

“Have you talked to Betty?” he says bluntly, interrupting a description of some football formation Archie’s supposed to be learning before varsity tryouts.

A long pause tells Jughead everything he needs to know even before Archie says, “I’m afraid to.” A confession.

Jughead scoffs. “You’re cool with Moose Mason or some equally comically large and angry human barreling down on you, but you can’t talk to a girl you don’t even like that way?”

“Jug, come on. You know it’s not like that.”

(Jughead considers that he might, in fact, have engaged in a bit of hyperbole there.)

“I hate so much that I hurt Betty’s feelings, I do. But I couldn’t lie to her. She’s my best friend, Jug.”

(He doesn’t even want to know if Archie misspoke about having just the one best friend, or whether that omission was made on purpose.)

“Yeah, I know.” He pinches the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb. Doing so accomplishes nothing. “Just talk to her, okay? It would go a long way.”

“I’ll try,” Archie says. Before Jughead can interject with _don’t try, just do it_ (with the words in that order; he is not willing to quote Yoda, not ever), Archie adds, “I miss having you around.”

This, Jughead feels, is the maximum amount of emotional honesty the two of them are capable of achieving.

He doesn’t burn the olive branch, but he’s not exactly eager to take it out of Archie’s hands, either.

“I’ll be back soon enough,” he says, and they kind of leave it at that.

* * * * * 

On Thursday night, she’s in the common room playing Clue with some of the STEM kids again when, out of the blue, one of them asks her if she wants to see a movie tomorrow night.

“Sure,” she says without really thinking, and it’s only as they’re discussing the details that she realizes he was asking her on a date.

For a moment, panic rises in her chest; surely, _surely_ , she should back out now, suddenly remember an invented previous engagement. But…

Adam—his name is Adam—is pretty nice, or at least so far he’s seemed to be. He’s obviously smart. He’s objectively kind of cute, if not in a way that makes her heart flutter. And it’s not as though she has guys lining up around the corner to ask her out.

Plus, she’ll probably never see him after this summer, so… what exactly does she have to lose?

Before she falls asleep that night, she tries to imagine the advice Polly would give her. Part of her thinks Polly would agree that Betty should spread her wings, try new things, put herself out there at least a little; part of her thinks Polly would get that weird glassy look in her eye and insist it’s worth waiting forever for true love. This leads to a mental image of herself as Sleeping Beauty, her life on hold until Archie kisses her, and she thinks: _I would be asleep forever_.

Not because Archie would take far too long to get there, although he absolutely would.

Because his kiss wouldn’t wake her up. 

She switches on her bedside lamp, grabs her diary, and starts writing down this sudden and vital insight; it’s late, but that doesn’t matter now. At some point, her phone buzzes. She checks it quickly—Jughead, of course, with a thought about the Jason story—and sends a quick response.

Her heart still hurts like hell.

* * * * * 

Jughead is in bed Thursday night, trying desperately to empty his mind so sleep will come, when the connection hits him. The connection between the Blossom/Cooper feud of old and the complicated events of today.

The old murder proves that Riverdale has never been as innocent as it might have seemed. That since long before Jason Blossom drowned in Sweetwater River, long before Polly Cooper (maybe) had a nervous breakdown, the town with pep has carried with it a dark side, like the black, sticky mud that inevitably breaks through pristine white snow.

It’s late, but he can’t let this go. He grabs his phone and texts Betty an abbreviated version of his insight, ending with _This isn’t just about Polly and Jason. It’s about Riverdale._ There’s every chance she’s asleep and won’t see his message until morning, or that she’s asleep and he just woke her up, but she responds almost instantly.

_Sounds like you found your lede._

Within seconds, he’s at his laptop.

 _This is the story of a town_ , he writes. _A small town. And the people who live in the town._

He leans back for a moment and tries to critically assess his own words.

He thinks they’re probably terrible. But they get the point across, and the first draft is the first draft, so he grits his teeth and keeps going.

The next morning, as they walk to work, Betty asks if she can read what he’s written.

“How do you know I’ve written anything?”

“You look like you only slept for an hour.”

“Three,” he says. “Don’t worry, Cooper, I’ll be sure to get my beauty rest tonight.”

This line, which is not funny, makes Betty laugh anyway. “Good,” she tells him. “You know I only like you because you’re pretty.”

Jughead’s first instinct is to pull some sort of hideous face, but he resists it. “This coming from the girl who once told me I look like a ghost alien.”

“Did I? When?”

“New Year’s Eve.”

“Oh,” she says, and he can’t tell if that means she remembers or not. She stands back for a moment and makes a show of critically assessing him. “You _are_ kind of pale.”

He’s confused, is what he is.

“Are we working on the story tonight?” he asks. He asks that, and not whether Archie has called her.

A guilty, almost embarrassed look crosses Betty’s face. “Shoot. No, I can’t.” Marcy wolf-whistles from somewhere behind them, and Betty flushes scarlet. “I have a date.”

A _date_?

“One of the guys from the chemistry program asked if I wanted to go to a movie with him,” she says, still bright pink. “So I figured… why not, right? I mean, I need to, you know… move on.”

Suddenly, Jughead hates everything.

“And we’re just seeing _Spider-Man_. It’s not like it’s a _date_ date.”

“You literally just called it a date,” Jughead mutters. She blushes again, and Jughead continues to hate everything.

Until Betty knocks on his door later that night.

“I thought you were on a date,” he says blankly as she walks in, trying not to think about the fact that Betty, clearly still in her date outfit, looks adorable, whereas he had been wearing pajama pants until she knocked on the door about thirty seconds ago and is now clad in jeans of questionable cleanliness. 

“We had to be back before dorm curfew, you know that.”

“Right.”

Betty climbs up on the second bed and sits cross-legged, leaning against the wall. “How’s the writing going?”

“It’s going,” he says, climbing up into his own bed.

There’s a long silence, punctuated only by a string of half-anxious, half-indecipherable Betty Cooper faces. Finally, he just comes out with it, inwardly cursing the bizarre set of circumstances that have left him Betty’s most obvious confidante.

(Or something. Isn’t this something she should be talking to Tomoko and Marcy about? Or Kevin, even though Kevin’s not here?)

This is going to be painful, so he opts for a sideways approach. “Are you waiting for me to ask how your date went?”

“No. I mean, It was fine,” she replies, a little too quickly. “He was nice. I didn’t…” She shrugs. “It was fine. But I’m not going to go out with him again.”

“Oh.”

He’s so confused.

“Archie called,” she says. “While we were in the movie. He called.”

“About damn time,” Jughead mutters to himself, quietly enough that he knows Betty won’t be able to hear him. It makes sense, now, why she’s here. To talk about Archie. 

(He hates everything again.) 

“He left a message,” Betty continues. “Nothing much, really, except that he’s sorry and he hopes we can talk. I called him back before I came up here, but he didn’t answer.”

Bracing himself as he is for the worst, Jughead is _not_ expecting the next words that come out of her mouth.

“I think the worst is over.”

He does not move a muscle.

“I mean, I thought that before he called. And I’m still sad. But then he called, and hearing his voice, it didn’t…” She spreads her hands and sighs. “I don’t know. And I’m unloading my weird stuff on you again.”

“You know I don’t mind,” he says, which is a mostly true statement.

Betty tilts her head, narrows her eyes a little, taps her fingers on her knees a couple of times while they both wait for the subject to change itself. This doesn’t happen, but thankfully she makes an effort herself. “Hey, how are your mom and Jellybean doing?”

“I haven’t really heard from them.” When Betty looks like she wishes she hadn’t brought them up, he adds, “But last time I talked to Jellybean, she was okay. My grandparents’ neighbors have a pool, so.” 

“So,” Betty echoes.

“So, tell me. Was it necessary to reboot the _Spider-Man_ franchise yet again?”

* * * * * 

Betty has another late night with her diary. There was a part of her date she hadn’t told Jughead about, because how on earth could she, when she herself doesn’t know what it means?

The first part of the date is this: while Adam was perfectly nice, she had gotten so involved in the movie that she’d actually forgotten she was on a date. Not just forgotten to be nervous; she had actually forgotten she was on a date at all, and that doesn’t seem like a good sign.

And the second part is this: at one point, the camera had panned past one of the characters flat on her back on a gym mat, bench pressing a large book, reminding Betty of the time she’d seen Jughead doing almost the same thing. And at _that_ point, she’d looked over to her left, at Adam, and been surprised to find someone not-Jughead sitting next to her.

Not just surprised. Disappointed.

She really doesn’t know what to make of that.

The next afternoon, Archie calls her back, full of hesitant and awkward apologies for his behavior over the past month.

“I hate that I hurt you, Betty,” he says, over and over.

Betty has tears in her eyes, sure, but every time he repeats the words, they hurt a little less. It helps that even Archie seems to know not to bring up his rejection of her explicitly.

“You’re doing okay, though, right?” he asks, sounding a little as though _he_ might cry.

“I am, yeah.” She can practically hear him holding his breath. “I’m not going to lie. I’ve been really sad. But I’m okay. I even went on a date last night.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

Archie does not ask how her date went. She supposes she can only expect so much from him, and switches the subject to the Toni Morrison reading, realizing halfway through her gushing that this feels a bit like a test of their friendship; she knows Archie doesn’t personally care about Toni Morrison. He seems to care that _she_ cares, though, and he does even ask a few questions about it. It seems like a pretty good sign that she won’t lose him as a friend. And with that realization, Betty feels a huge wave of relief, like something’s loosened inside her.

She might even be able to test herself out a little.

Betty starts with what she thinks is an easy question, asking Archie whether he’s had a chance to play the guitar much lately. By the time that topic’s run out, she thinks—maybe—that she can do it.

She closes her eyes, squeezes one fist tight, and gets the question out. “How’s your mystery girlfriend?”

Archie’s silent for a good long moment, long enough for her to go into apologetic panic mode.

“If you don’t want to talk about her with me, I get it,” she says hurriedly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Don’t apologize,” Archie says. “I just… I can’t talk about that. It’s not you, Betty. I just… can’t talk about it. Her.”

“Okay,” she says, hearing an uncertain waver in her own voice.

They chat about other, less loaded topics for a bit—the weather, football practice, the mystery item Vegas ate and threw up last week.

After they hang up, Betty closes her eyes and tries to evaluate her feelings.

She’s definitely still sad. And if Archie were here, she would definitely want to hug him.

But for the first time in a very long time, she thinks—no, she _knows_ —that that’s all she would want to do.

She texts Jughead. _Just talked to Archie._

_Yeah?_ he responds.

_I think things are… okay._

_Good_ , he writes back, and then, _Hold up, now he’s calling me._

She runs into Jughead at the dining hall that night, and they debrief a little. “I’m still not inclined to completely forgive him,” he mutters.

“At least he’s trying,” she offers, to which Jughead rolls his eyes, as if to say _we shouldn’t be giving him too much credit for that_.

She changes the subject, for which Jughead looks grateful.

* * * * * 

The next week finds their workdays spent in endless anticipation of the Toni Morrison reading on Friday night, and Jughead’s non-working hours spent on the college library’s website, which he’s only recently learned they have access to. Brook Glen College, it transpires, subscribes to all sorts of digitized old newspapers. Included in these is—to his surprise—the very first incarnation of what would eventually become the _Riverdale Register_ : established 1924, shuttered during the Great Depression, re-founded as the _Register_ in 1942.

He has learned a _lot_ about the state of the maple syrup industry in the first half of the twentieth century, but not much about the maple syrup feud—unsurprising, really. The Blossoms had no doubt leaned on whoever owned the paper at the time to keep the scandal hushed up.

“Betty,” he asks one evening, “when exactly did your family take over the _Register_?”

She doesn’t look up from the bed he now thinks of as hers; she’s engrossed in what he thinks might be a second reread of _The Bluest Eye_. “1942, I think.”

Jughead pulls up a .pdf of the very first rebooted _Register_ and zooms in on the masthead. The text is blurry at this resolution, but he can make it out. “‘Owner and Publisher, Paul Gardner.’”

“Yeah, that’s my…great-great uncle, I think?” Betty sits up. “Great-Granny Cooper’s maiden name was Gardner. Paul was her brother. He never married or had kids, so the _Register_ passed to my grandfather. Why?”

“I’m trying to figure out why the _Register_ never mentioned your great-grandfather’s murder. I mean, obviously, the Blossoms leaned on the paper to hush it up, but…”

“But my great-grandfather was murdered in 1942,” she says.

“Yeah. A week before the paper started back up.” 

“So if the paper was owned by someone in my family…” A look of uncertainty crosses Betty’s face. “I guess it was already old news at that point, maybe?”

Jughead has skimmed through enough of the 1942 _Register_ to know one thing with certainty: there was absolutely nothing happening in Riverdale in 1942 worth writing about. By all rights, a week-old murder should have been the top headline from when it happened in March to, say, September, when ground was broken on the Pembrooke Building.

“Or the Blossoms leaned really hard on him. Does this not feel fishy to you? I mean, the murdered man was his brother-in-law, you’d think he would want to drag the Blossoms through as much mud as he could dredge up.”

“It does seem weird,” she says, nodding. “This is crazy, actually. I can’t believe I never put all that together before.”

“When we get back, I want to look in the town archives.” He’s not exactly sure what he should be looking for, but there must be—tax records for Blossom Family Farms or the _Register_? Great-Grandpa Cooper’s death certificate? Whatever exists is in paper form only, he’s sure of that much.

He slides a sideways glance at Betty, and discovers she knows something he doesn’t.

“What, Betty?”

“I bet I can get us those records sooner.”

“How?”

“Ethel,” she says, as though this is obvious.

“Ethel? Ethel Muggs?”

“Please don’t tell me you know another person named Ethel.” He doesn’t, so he shakes his head, and Betty continues. “It’ll be easy. She has a summer volunteer job at the library, so she’s right next door to Town Hall. Once we figure out what we want, I’ll just ask her to make copies and send them to us.”

“Why would Ethel want to do this for you?”

“Not for me, for the newspaper. I’ll ask her to join _The Blue and Gold_. She’s a decent writer, and we are going to need more people involved.” 

“Okay…” Jughead says, still unsure that Ethel Muggs is going to want to take time out of her life to perform this very tedious task—especially when he considers the fact that there is no obvious connection to the supposed Jason Blossom tribute that is their one planned story. Unless they’re writing a tribute to Jason Blossom that starts sixty years before his birth.

Betty pushes back ever so slightly, the hint of a gleam in her eye. “On second thought, maybe you should ask her.”

“Uh. Why, exactly?”

“Well, I don’t know if she still does,” Betty says, her voice a bit teasing, “but she had a _huge_ crush on you in middle school.”

He does not want to imagine what his face must look like right now.

“Wait, did you not know that? It wasn’t exactly a secret that you broke her heart when you didn’t go to her birthday party.”

“I genuinely thought Reggie made it up to torment me.” Which Reggie had, all throughout seventh grade. “Ethel never…” He feels kind of terrible now, and whether that secondhand embarrassment is for seventh-grade Ethel’s sake or seventh-grade Jughead’s (or both of their seventh-grade selves) is a mystery. “And I didn’t go to _anyone’s_ birthday party except Archie’s, as far as I can remember.”

“It’s okay, Jug.” Betty gives his knee a friendly pat. “I can assure you that there were a lot of girls harboring secret crushes in middle school. Mostly on Reggie, actually, I think.”

“Reggie did make it through early puberty less scathed than the rest of us.”

“Nah, he just got his braces off first,” Betty says, climbing down the ladder. She pauses at the bottom of the ladder and smiles up at him. “But I’ll ask Ethel, if you want.”

Jughead can still feel his face burning. “Please,” he croaks.

Before Betty leaves that night, she asks one more entirely uncomfortable question. They’ve been talking about other topics entirely, so it comes somewhat out of the blue.

“Has anyone ever broken _your_ heart?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“I guess not,” he says, trying to keep his tone even, “but then, I’ve never exactly taken it out of the box.”

“Hmm,” Betty replies, in a tone he can’t interpret. “Well, good night, Jug.”

He has a very hard time falling asleep that night.

* * * * * 

On Friday, they’re released from work an hour early to prepare for the Toni Morrison event. Reserved seats are being held for them in the auditorium, since they’ll be spending the hour leading up to the reading handing out programs and press catalogs. They have time to go to an early dinner, but Betty doesn’t think she’s capable of eating, and heads back to her room.

“We should all walk over together, right?” asks Marcy, and they agree to meet outside the dorm’s front doors in ninety minutes.

No one has explicitly told them to dress up, but the fact that they should do so has been heavily implied, so after Betty’s showered and dried her hair, she reaches into the back of her closet for the little black dress Kevin made her buy, the one with the slightly short skirt and slightly revealing neckline. The shoes require a little more thought; she’s got a pair of heels with her, but she is technically working tonight and probably will be on her feet and walking a lot. In the end, she opts for her nicest flats. Toni Morrison will probably not care about Betty’s shoes or whether her legs look longer, whereas Betty will definitely care if some high heel disaster befalls her and she wipes out in front of Toni Morrison.

She sets her hair down in waves, then pulls the top half away from her face and pins it, lest she try to nervously fidget with the ends; she chooses subtle but pretty earrings (not much of a choice, since that is a description of literally all of Betty’s earrings); she leaves on Polly’s key necklace. It’s all fine. She looks nice. The little black dress feels a bit edgier, a bit more fashion-forward, than what she would wear to a school dance, but she’s not so far from her usual, comfortable, lived-in self that she’s going to spend all night worrying about it. 

Betty’s just finishing up the last touch of makeup—soft pink lipstick—when there’s a light tap at her door.

“It’s not locked!” she calls. For some reason, she’s expecting to see Tomoko and Marcy, so it’s a bit of a surprise when a gray beanie appears behind her in the mirror.

Betty turns around, and a whole swarm of butterflies swoops through her chest.

Jughead stands just inside her doorway—he’s standing, not leaning—with his hands in the pockets of a _suit_ , an actual suit. It’s a dark, rich, not-quite-navy that makes his eyes look especially blue. It’s _fitted_. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt and a dark knit skinny hipster tie. But there are two particular details that make her smile feel a little brighter: one, he’s opted for his old black Chuck Taylors instead of dress shoes, and two, his suspenders are on correctly.

“Wow,” she says.

Three: he’s _blushing_.

“Best I could do,” he mutters, eyes flickering down and to his right, as though even this tiny bit of approval is too much to handle comfortably.

“You look great.”

“Thanks.” He swallows a couple of times. “You, uh…”

No more words come out. This is so cute that Betty kind of can’t stand it, so she grabs her just-in-case cardigan and purse, double-checking the latter for her keys and copy of _The Bluest Eye_ before they leave her room. She pulls the door shut behind them and then, spontaneously, offers Jughead her arm. He takes it with a hesitation that she somehow understands is borne more of disbelief than of disinclination.

It’s not until they’re outside waiting for the others that Betty realizes: _oh_.

She takes her arm back momentarily, under the guise of needing two hands to touch up her lipstick, and they stand around kind of awkwardly for the next few minutes. Neither of them is talking, but Betty finds herself sneaking a lot of little glances at Jughead, and she’s almost positive he’s sneaking a lot of little glances at her. Eventually Marcy and Tomoko show up and, after the requisite round of the girls complimenting each other on their outfits, they head off.

By what seems to Betty like mutual unspoken agreement, she and Jughead hang back a few paces and let their friends lead the way to the auditorium. They don’t link arms again; they _do_ walk so close to each other that their elbows keep bumping.

Jughead appears to spend most of the journey suffering from either very bad dry mouth or a very bad frog in his throat, and doesn’t get his words back until they’ve almost reached their destination.

“You look amazing,” he says softly, fingertips _just_ brushing against her arm in a way that sends all those butterflies careening a second time.

 _Oh_ , she thinks again.

There are enough people queued up outside that the four of them have to shove through to the doors. Once inside, they meet up with the organizers for a quick briefing, and assume their positions. The next hour is spent handing out programs and directing people to the restrooms; by the time someone comes to tell them they can take their seats, Betty has only two thoughts in her mind. The first is that she’s very glad she’d opted to wear flats; the second is _Oh my god, Toni Morrison_.

“Are you okay?” murmurs Jughead. Betty nods. She’s aware of the single tear in the corner of her eye. It’s a happy tear, though, and she decides it can stay there.

A single armrest separates their seats. Jughead’s left arm is already on it, his fingers draped over the front edge, tapping a soft, discordant rhythm. Betty watches his hand for a moment, and finds that she is so, so tempted to put her hand on top of his, to lace their fingers together, to lean over so she’s pushing a little of her body weight into his upper arm.

This is a strange sensation, this longing, and when she thinks about why it’s strange, she can’t come up with an answer. It’s not as though they haven’t been making physical contact all summer, in ways large and small, often enough that it seems odd to remember that not so very long ago, she believed Jughead’s personal space bubble was six feet in circumference and completely impenetrable.

It’s not as though he hasn’t been there, right beside her, through every terrible thing that’s happened this summer. It’s not as though he hasn’t let her chip away at some of his walls, get a peek at what’s under the outer layers of sarcasm and flannel. 

It’s not as though Betty has _only just tonight_ realized his smile is capable of making her newly healed heart skip a beat.

(On second thought, maybe it is only just tonight that she’s fully realized that last one.)

As the lights start going down, Betty lets her gaze slip from the podium to the boy sitting beside her. He’s waiting. He’s waiting for the event to start, but suddenly she has access to an immense amount of information that her mind hadn’t let her see clearly before, and she understands that he’s also waiting for her. He’s _been_ waiting for her. He’ll probably _continue_ to wait for her. That he Likes her with a capital L, and that—very possibly—she Likes him with a capital L, too.

Loathe as she is to drag the third point of their disintegrating triangle into her conscious mind, Betty understands exactly why Jughead has kept any feelings he might have under such tight wraps. Archie.

It’s not as though she hasn’t figured out that Jughead understands her better than Archie ever did.

The president of Brook Glen Press is coming onstage to give the introduction, which means that this is no time for Betty to continue examining her love life.

She thinks about the first edition of _The Bluest Eye_ that’s tucked away in her purse.

Betty folds her hands into her lap and intertwines her own fingers together. She also leans to the side ever so slightly, so that her upper arm is barely touching Jughead’s.

He shifts closer.

* * * * *

When she turns around and sees him in her doorway, all Jughead can think is that he has never seen that particular look on Betty Cooper’s face before.

Jughead has seen Betty Cooper look hopefully at Archie. He’s seen her look longingly at Archie. He’s seen her look _pleadingly_ at Archie. He’s seen her look nervously and inquisitively and seriously and thoughtfully and, god, a million other adverbs. All at Archie. 

He has never seen her look like _that_.

And she’s looking like that at _him_.

Somewhere, in a universe where he’s secure enough to crack a joke, a version of Jughead is making a quip along the lines of _well, gee, Betty, if I’d known all it would take was a suit…_ But this Jughead, in this universe—this one can barely breathe.

Because this universe’s Betty Cooper is just. Well. At some point it occurs to Jughead that since he has never attended any sort of fancy or even fancy-ish social event, he has only ever seen pictures of Betty dressed up. Those are painful enough to look at (the good kind of painful), but the real thing? 

For some reason, she offers him her arm, which of course he takes; after that, he’s not sure his heart rate returns to normal until well after they’ve started handing out programs. It is possible he has spoken words in the interim, but he wouldn’t swear to it.

Toni Morrison reads. She’s far from his favorite author, but she is nevertheless a hundred kinds of amazing. For a while Jughead even loses himself in her voice, her words.

Halfway through the reading, Betty suddenly clutches his hand, wringing it in a death grip. He looks over to her; clearly, she has no idea she’s touching him at all, not until Toni Morrison nods to the auditorium and they suddenly need their hands to clap.

Quickly, all the interns are rushed from the audience and over to the college’s Club Room, where the reception is being held. Here, again, they’re supposed to have work to do; it transpires that whatever this work is has already been done. The four of them start trying to make themselves useful, most likely in ways that are not useful at all, until one of their bosses comes over and tells them not to bother.

The reception opens up. They’re not the youngest people here—several faculty members have brought small children—but Jughead still has no clear sense of what it is he’s supposed to _do_ at a reception, and settles for nabbing as many circulating hors d’oeuvres as he can before the waiters start deliberately avoiding him. Betty and Tomoko gamely start making the rounds with the adults they know, but Marcy, who’s even more socially inept than Jughead is, sticks in the shadows with him.

The guest of honor arrives about twenty minutes in, which changes the Club Room’s atmosphere from anticipatory to somewhat reverent.

One of the managing editors stops by the standing table he and Marcy have claimed, and pointedly encourages them to mingle, so he gives it a go for all of five painful minutes, at which point—thank god—Betty sidles up to him and—thank god—he finds he’s able to function like a relatively normal human person again.

“I asked my boss and she said it’s okay to ask for an autograph,” she says, almost breathless. “Do you think I should?”

Jughead has never cared much about autographs, per se. But would he pass up the chance to say something idiotic while shaking Quentin Tarantino’s hand? No. No, he would not. So he nudges Betty’s shoulder and tells her to go talk to Toni Morrison.

Between Betty’s nerves and the crowds surrounding their guest of honor, this mission takes the better part of an hour, but eventually he sees Betty has made it to the front of the line. She reaches into her bag and draw out her copy of _The Bluest Eye_ with shaking hands. Toni Morrison’s back is to Jughead, so he can’t gauge her reaction. But judging by the look on Betty’s face, by the hands clasped in front of her chest as Toni Morrison flips open the book’s front cover and scrawls something with a fine-point Sharpie, everything is A-OK.

Betty takes the book back, hugging it to her chest like the precious artifact that it is. Then she starts scanning the room, looking for what, he doesn’t know—until her gaze lands on him, and she smiles more broadly and gestures him over. Jughead shakes his head, tries to wave her off; Toni Morrison is her idol, not his, and he doesn’t want to cut into what is probably the only time Betty will ever get with her.

But Betty, being Betty, keeps waving him over until he finally gives up and goes over, and he shakes Toni Morrison’s hand, and even he has to admit it’s all pretty cool.

“So that looked like it went well,” he says, after the next hand-shaking autograph seeker has cut in.

Betty’s still trembling a little. “Oh, my god. That may have been the best moment of my life, so far.”

“What did she write?”

She flips to the title page and shows him. _To Betty: Thank you for your kind words. Always remember to stop and smell the flowers_ , and her signature.

“That’s so…” Unsure as he is of his ability to use the words _great_ or _awesome_ without sounding sarcastic, he’s not sure what word is most appropriate here. Toni Morrison clearly gets it, though. “I’m glad you got to meet her.”

“It’s been a really good day.” She closes the book and places it carefully, reverently, back in her purse. “I wish we could get your literary idol in here.”

“Don’t wish that. They’re all dead.”

Betty laughs a little, although this is, in fact, completely true. “You don’t think a reading with a zombie… Salinger… would be a good idea?”

“It’s not Salinger. Although if you could get him to do a public reading, I’d consider lying to his face about it.”

“Fitzgerald,” she guesses next, and he shakes his head. “Kerouac? Oh, god, Jug, please don’t tell me it’s Hemingway.”

Truth be told, Jughead’s never been able to decide on a single literary idol, but watching Betty’s determination to guess one is so enjoyable he can’t quite bring himself to admit as much. Instead he just stands there, leaning against a random column towards the edge of the room, shaking his head slightly while trying to repress a grin.

(Most of her guesses are not that far off, if he were to assemble a Last Supper of Dead Authors.)

“…because I _would_ show up for Zombie Dostoyevsky.”

“Wouldn’t he be reading in Russian?”

“Good point,” Betty says, before her stomach growls so loudly that they’re both a little startled. And embarrassed, in her case, although it’s not like he cares that Betty has normal human bodily functions.

“Did you eat dinner?”

“I haven’t eaten all day. I’ve been too excited.” 

Jughead automatically starts searching out the waiter with the lamb sliders (these being by far the best of the hors d’oeuvres, in his admittedly unsophisticated opinion), but Betty taps him on the arm.

“Could I maybe talk you into a visit to our second-favorite diner?” she asks. 

He squints and grabs his chin, pretending to think about it for a moment, to which Betty rolls her eyes, takes his hand, and starts leading him to the door.

Betty lets go of his hand once they’re out of the crowd.

Outside, the air is just a touch on the cool side, and Betty slips on the cardigan she’s been carrying around. She pulls her hair out of the sweater’s neckline and lets it cascade down her back, golden waves gleaming under the streetlamp.

He’s not going to survive this much longer.

They walk for a few minutes in total silence, until Betty says, very softly, “Can I ask you something?”

He nods.

“And you have to promise to tell the truth.”

He nods again, a little uncertainly this time.

“Did Archie really pick out my birthday present?”

The swiftness, the _directness_ of this question pounds him right in the gut. Jughead knows at once that there is no way he can possibly give a satisfactory answer to it.

“You said you were with him when he bought it,” she continues. “And it meant _so much_ to me, at the time. But then I started thinking, I guess when you said you were with him—I mean, that wasn’t a surprise.”

By now she’s stopped walking, which means he has also stopped walking. One of her hands is curled into a fist, and the other is inside her purse—holding onto the book in question, no doubt.

“So did he pick it out for me, or did you?”

And there it is. The impossible question.

He’s not going to lie to her. He wouldn’t have lied to her even if she had not explicitly asked him not to, of course. But he doesn’t see how he can possibly tell the truth, either; whatever he and Archie are to each other now, they were friends then, and Jughead isn’t going to betray that.

But Betty, of course, understands exactly what his silence means. She huffs out a breath, and then says, simply, “Jughead.”

She’s probably going to hate him for this.

“I… may have made a suggestion,” he allows.

Betty turns away; she appears to be collecting herself, and Jughead waits, trying to brace himself for whatever is coming. Probably not yelling, although he’d prefer that to crying.

But when Betty turns around, she’s _smiling_. She’s smiling, soft and shy.

Confusion starts bubbling over. “You’re not angry?”

“At you? Of course I’m not,” Betty says, shaking her head a little. “A month ago, I might have been. Right now I’m just mad at myself for not figuring it out sooner. Jughead…” She fixes her enormous green eyes on his, and he’s struck all over again by everything about her. “Why?”

He has no answer for this. Well, he does. But he’s not going to tell her _because I expected Archie to come to his senses at any moment, and realize how incredible you are_ for any number of reasons, not least of which is that Betty kind of looks like she’s already figured out the answer.

Or maybe not the answer, exactly, but something close to it.

“It wasn’t important,” he says, shrugging a little.

“It wasn’t _important_?”

“The important thing was that you were happy.” It is a ridiculous goddamned sappy romance novel answer, he knows that. But it’s also true. “Also…”

Betty’s looking like _that_ again. She’s looking like that _at him_.

Before Jughead can think of what could possibly follow _also_ , there’s a soft hand cupping each side of his jaw, and Betty Cooper is tugging ever so slightly, guiding his face closer to hers, kissing him.

Betty Cooper is kissing him.

Betty Cooper is _kissing_ him.

Betty Cooper is kissing _him_.

Jughead Jones is not an idiot. So he kisses her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I TOLD YOU GUYS IT WOULDN'T BE SOLID ANGST FOREVER. Or maybe I didn't. But I didn't want to give anything away :) 
> 
> (Comments are great, you're all great, I love everyone in this Toni Morrison reading, etc.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: another walk in the woods, another delve into primary sources, and not one but TWO whatever-Riverside's-brand-of-Skype-is chats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diaphenia is a beautiful plate of diner food.

Jughead might have said the sentence he’s about to utter in the past few years; if he has, it’s been out of the necessity of convincing himself, or someone else, that it was true. But now, he finds, it is in fact true.

The sentence is “I’m actually not hungry.”

Betty turns sideways to look at him, raising a skeptical eyebrow as she does so. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I feel great,” he says, giving her hand a squeeze under the table; this sentence is also true. In fact, it’s possible he’s never spoken truer words in his life.

Betty looks down at the menu, her cheeks pleasingly pink. “Who are you, and what did you do with Jughead?”

The question is actually: what did _Betty_ do with Jughead?

Betty Cooper kissed him not twenty minutes ago, and he kissed her back, and when they broke apart she silently slipped her hand from his face to his arm, and then she ran it down his arm, and then he took her hand in his and squeezed it, and she squeezed back, and they haven’t let go since, and he’s still not sure his heart is beating properly, and run-on sentences be damned.

They order—he gets some fries, at Betty’s insistence—and only when she excuses herself to the restroom do they break contact. But she sits in the same side of the booth when she returns, next to him, and presses her leg into his.

“I need my hand to eat,” she says, somewhat apologetically.

He eats all of his fries and half of hers.

“I thought you weren’t that hungry,” Betty says teasingly, and then shakes her head when he reaches for his wallet. “I’ve got this one. I asked you out tonight, remember?”

Jughead imagines kissing her right then and there, in the booth, but restrains himself.

“So I should have had a burger after all,” he says, and Betty laughs.

They walk back to the dorm in companionable silence, holding hands again, stealing occasional glances at each other. Every time Betty catches him looking at her, she grins and ducks her head; every time he catches Betty looking at him, he squeezes her hand. Jughead’s heart beats faster and faster as they get closer to the front doors, until he’s almost afraid it’s going to explode. He’ll walk Betty back to her room, of course, but there is every possibility her room will be full of lacrosse players; that the door will be open, with people spilling into the hall. In case this is it—in case Betty comes to her senses tomorrow morning and tonight is all he gets—he wants to kiss her again.

They come to a stop just before the front doors of the dorm, and he tugs her just slightly off the path, to a spot that’s a bit more secluded. He turns to face her, but doesn’t let go of her hand just yet.

“Hey.” His voice sounds surprisingly… okay, considering how nervous he feels. _Don’t be stupid_ , he thinks, _she kissed you first_. “So, I think this is the part where I say ‘I had a really good time tonight.’”

It’s dark where they’re standing, with no direct overhead light; this makes the sparkle in Betty’s eyes seems especially bright. “Did you?”

“It wasn’t so bad,” he says, and just as Betty’s smile grows a little wider, he slides his hands to cradle her face and kiss her. Betty’s hands move up his arms, clutching at his jacket above the elbow; she’s pulling him closer, and now he’s _really_ afraid his heart might explode. A voice in the back of his mind tells him to keep it short and sweet, which he manages to do only with extreme difficulty.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Betty says as they approach her bedroom door—which is, of course, open, with lacrosse players spilling into the hall.

“Of course.”

“Okay.” Betty pauses for a moment, licking her lips as though trying to push a word off the tip of her tongue. But all that comes out is “Good night, Jughead.”

“Night, Betts.”

He promptly goes upstairs, gets ready for bed, and finds he can’t sleep. It isn’t very late, barely past ten o’clock, but he somehow knows that the time has nothing to do with it.

Jughead has never wondered what might happen _after_ kissing Betty Cooper, because Jughead has never let himself imagine kissing Betty Cooper in any sort of detail; now that the impossible has happened and he has kissed Betty Cooper, all sorts of images are flooding into his mind. Some of them he likes very much indeed (the ones in which the follow-up to kissing Betty Cooper is kissing her some more, for instance), and some are a little less satisfactory.

When his brain lands on Archie showing up out of nowhere with a bouquet of flowers and a profession of his own idiocy, Jughead gives up on trying to sleep.

When his brain can’t focus on reading, writing, or _Reservoir Dogs_ , he gives up on being his normal self entirely, and tries the extraordinarily novel concept of allowing himself to feel happy.

It works, in that his brain finally allows him to fall asleep. But then he has an unusually vivid dream. He’s in a kitchen that he understands to be the Coopers’, even though it doesn’t look anything like their kitchen; it looks, rather, like the kitchen from _Leave it to Beaver_. Betty, dressed in something he might describe as Hitchcock blonde casual wear (her breasts are so… structured), carries a stack of plates to the counter while Archie, also in 1950s duds, holds up a pizza cutter. Jughead is taking a pizza out of the oven; he, too, is anachronistically dressed, although his dream self seems to have gone for the 1940s instead, with a turtleneck and a whoopee cap and everything.

(Even as it’s happening, he is conscious that the dream is truly bizarre.)

Dream Jughead puts the pizza on the counter; Dream Archie touches the hot pan and jumps back. Jughead takes the slicer from him. He starts slicing the pizza, only to hear Archie ask “Dude, why are you cutting me to pieces?” At this point he realizes that Archie has become the pizza and that he is, indeed, slicing Archie’s remarkably defined abs into little bits while Betty looks on in concern. She kisses Jughead on the cheek, then picks up one of Archie’s hands and kisses that too.

Jughead wakes up in a cold sweat. He checks the clock and finds it’s just past six. After twenty minutes of trying and failing to fall back asleep, he gives up and heads for the shower.

In the end, he can’t help himself. He texts Betty _I’m up when you are_ and screws around on the internet for another hour and a half until there’s a light tap at his door. He answers, and finds Betty on the other side, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, in her usual weekend getup of shorts, t-shirt, ponytail, and no makeup. But she’s also wearing a slightly different smile than usual, one that’s quiet and _relaxed_ , somehow.

 _Oh_ , Jughead realizes, _I think that’s for me_ , and the world instantly feels ten thousand times lighter.

“Hungry?” Betty asks. He nods, and they head to the dining hall.

They don’t kiss again. Yet.

But when they return to his room after breakfast for a little old-fashioned Blossom/Cooper maple syrup feud investigating, Betty climbs into his bed instead of the empty one, sits as close to him as possible, and casually drapes a hand on his leg while they read through last week’s notes. It’s completely innocent and completely distracting all at once, and finally, Jughead closes his laptop and turns to her.

“About last night…” he starts, and can’t think of a way to finish.

“What about it?” Betty’s not trying to be coy, he can tell that much even as his heartbeat goes completely insane again.

“Are we—in a situation like this, when people who’ve done what we—”

Betty raises an eyebrow. “Have you changed your mind?”

“No.”

“Good,” she says, “because I haven’t either.”

Her cheeks take on the tiniest bit of pink. For some reason, Jughead just smiles at her instead of making a move to kiss her again. Knowing he _could_ , and that she would like it, is as much as he needs right now.

(He still wants it to feel special, he realizes. That’s the reason.)

Betty gestures at the not-murder board. “Want to take a day off from this?”

“Feeling restless?”

“A little, yeah. We just…we’ve looked over what we have so many times. I don’t think we’re going to have any insights until we get some new evidence, and I need to clear my head.”

Jughead shrugs. “Okay.”

Two hours later, thanks to their old friend the bus, they’re at a state park ten miles out of town. Betty’s backpack is stuffed with a spare blanket and his with food, and they are now hiking towards a waterfall. Or possibly a gorge. Or both. Maybe it’s both.

“I mean,” Betty says as she steps over a tree root, “we’ve been in upstate New York all summer. I think we’re required by law to visit this stuff.”

Jughead nods in agreement, more because he’s missed the peaceful solitude of forests than because he feels the need to comply to upstate New York tourist regulations. There is just the slight problem that the trail is much more crowded than he’d prefer—he sees much less point in taking a walk through the woods when everyone else in the county is doing it too. But Betty’s right. They both need a break from Jason Blossom, Polly Cooper, and 1940s newspapers.

They find and admire the waterfall, find and admire the gorge, and finally find a grassy clearing, at which Betty spreads out the blanket and stretches out on it, giving Jughead the opportunity to admire her.

“Going to join me?” She reaches up a hand, and when he takes it, she gives him a gentle tug down.

As it turns out, lying on his back on a picnic blanket, staring up at the sky, with Betty Cooper snuggled up against his side is Jughead’s absolute favorite way to spend a summer day—even if the woods are full of other people. After they eat lunch, Betty tentatively lies down perpendicular to him and rests her head on his ribcage; he wraps his arm around her, she hugs his arm tight, and Jughead wonders if he’s ever been so content.

He’s not at all sure how much time has passed when Betty says, softly, “Juggie?”

“Yeah?”

“If we’re going to, you know, be together…”

“Are we?” he says, all his contentment electrifying into a sudden, swift thrill. “Seems like you’re being kind of presumptive, Cooper.”

Betty lifts her head just enough to give him a fake glare.

“Sorry.”

“If we’re dating, then I want to know about your life.”

Oh. (That’s a double _oh_ : she wants to know about his life, and they’re _dating_.) He resists the urge to squirm, but just barely, and sighs instead.

“What about it?”

“I don’t know. You don't have to tell me anything big right now, but…” The comfortable weight leaves his stomach as Betty rolls over and props herself up on an elbow to look at him. “I don’t even know when your birthday is.”

“I don’t celebrate it.”

“Really?” She looks a little stricken, and he wonders if she’s trying to recall any hints as to when it might be, like how their elementary school classroom was decorated on the day his mother brought cupcakes. Construction paper jack o'lanterns? Handprint turkeys? Snowmen?

(His mother had never brought cupcakes. His father had, once—first grade, the year he and Betty were in different classes.) 

He sits up, and Betty follows suit.

“It always seemed like an arbitrary day for my family to pretend things were normal. And they never were, and it just—it made me feel worse. Like… really lonely.”

Betty bites her lower lip, lowers her eyes to the ground, curls the fingers of one hand into a loose fist. Her other hand, the one that’s closer to him, wraps around his wrist.

It’s completely normal to want to celebrate, or at least acknowledge, the birthday of the person you’re dating. He knows that. And surely, at some point soon enough, Betty’s going to realize just how _not_ normal he is.

 _She already met your father_ , says a little voice in the back of his mind, the one that sounds like… his father. 

“Betts,” he says quietly, and she looks up. “It’s October 2nd.”

Betty smiles, and he thinks: _maybe that wasn’t so hard._

By the time they head back in the late afternoon, the trail has mostly cleared out. Even the path by the waterfall is free of traffic. Betty’s fingers are already laced into his, and it takes only half a second to turn so they’re facing each other.

“What?” Betty says, her voice full of anticipation.

The waterfall is beautiful, sure, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the girl in front of him. Jughead pulls her close and kisses her.

He’s not very experienced at this (having never kissed a girl before last night) and doesn’t know exactly what it’s all supposed to feel like. But he’s sure Betty’s lips smile against his, for just a moment, before she kisses him back.

* * * * *

Ethel Muggs comes through early on Sunday morning with a .zip file of scanned documents and an apology for not having gotten the email sent sooner.

“That’s totally okay,” Betty mutters to her computer. “This is amazing.”

She types as much in an email to Ethel, then forwards it to Jughead, who responds within a minute.

 _I’ll be up there soon_ , Betty texts, before bolting to the coffee shop that’s just off campus. When she arrives at his already-open door, coffees and muffins in hand, she finds him at his desk, hunched over his laptop.

“Morning,” she says.

Jughead looks up, apparently startled by her appearance, but his expression quickly softens. “Have you read through Ethel’s files yet?”

“No, I sent them to you and then went to get breakfast.” She hands Jughead the muffin bag, which he sets aside without opening. She sets the coffees next to the bag and puts her backpack on the floor. “Wow, this is more important to you than food? Okay. What did Ethel find?”

“It looks like there might be some good stuff in there. Never mind that for now, though. Look at this.” He moves the cursor over an article from a Canadian newspaper.

Betty looks at the date—January 1925—and then the headline. “‘Maple Syrup Scion Killed in Tragic Accident; Blossom Family Grieves.’ What is this?”

“Well,” Jughead says slowly, “it appears seventeen-year-old William Blossom, oldest son of Wilfred and Edna Blossom, was out for a walk next to Sweetwater River with his younger brother Josiah one icy winter morning when William slipped, fell, and was swept downriver. This article was written a week after it happened, and they hadn’t found a body yet.” 

A cold chill runs through Betty’s entire body, and she puts a hand on Jughead’s shoulder for support. “That’s—that’s almost exactly what happened to Jason,” she says.

“Weird, right? I can’t figure out what it means.”

“Really weird.” She swallows once. “What’s that even doing in the town’s archives?”

“It wasn’t there. It’s from a newspaper Brook Glen doesn’t have digital archives for. I requested it from interlibrary loan, and I just got the email this morning. There’s a second article from later that says they never did find a body.”

Strange though it might be, Betty feels a rush at her boyfriend’s investigative skills.

(They haven’t started using the words “boyfriend” or “girlfriend” out loud yet, but she’s pretty sure Jughead wouldn’t mind if she did.)

“That’s amazing,” she says instead. “Juggie, you’re amazing.”

He shoots her a quick, slightly embarrassed smile, and she leans over to give him a peck on the cheek.

The second desk chair is across the room; she goes to pull it over. By the time she sits down, Jughead’s tearing into a chocolate chip muffin.

“Okay.” Betty reaches for her backpack, which contains several legal pads and a stack of index cards in addition to her laptop. “Let’s get to work.”

Most of what Ethel has found to send them is tax records from Blossom Maple Farms—state records from before the town of Riverdale’s incorporation in 1941, state and local taxes after. The morning is moderately productive; it would be more productive, they agree, if either of them really knew how to read tax documents. Still, they’ve gleaned enough evidence to suggest that Blossom Maple Farms has taken in a lot of unreported income over the years, and particularly a lot of unreported income between approximately 1920 and 1933. 

“Well, there’s an obvious answer as to what that means,” Jughead says, after Betty’s Scotch-taped their new index cards to a blank stretch of wall. They’ve set this one up as a timeline, rather than a flow chart.

She nods. “The Blossoms were bootleggers.”

“And then after Prohibition ended…”

“They were in trouble,” Betty finishes. She pulls out one final index card, containing previously apocryphal information now confirmed by one of Ethel’s finds. “And Great-grandpappy William Cooper bought into the company in 1935.”

Her great-grandfather’s name gives her pause for a moment. She looks over at Jughead, who’s looking at her.

“They’re both named William.” 

He shakes his head. “That would be a huge coincidence, Betts. There are hundreds of thousands of people named William. Occam’s Razor, right?” She can tell from his voice that he’s not one hundred percent convinced.

“It would be a huge and ridiculous coincidence. How could something like that even be kept covered up? We have to assume William Blossom died.”

“Yeah,” says Jughead. “But to play devil’s advocate, they never found the body.”

“Okay, but that was 1924. Riverdale wasn’t even a town yet, and they didn’t have—I don’t know. Any fancy police equipment. What do you want to bet they didn’t do the most thorough search in the world?” 

He nods. “I’m sure you’re right. Still... I don’t suppose there’s a well-compiled Cooper family tree we could convince your parents to scan for us.”

“There definitely isn’t,” Betty says, realizing for the first time that she has _no idea_ about her ancestry, aside from the fact that they’re supposedly English. “But I think you’re right. Our next step in solving the blood feud is to find out everything we can about William Cooper.”

But how any of this is supposed to help them find Polly, she doesn’t know.

“I just miss her,” she says later, after lunch, when they’re wandering around the downtown area.

Jughead takes a deep breath and looks down at their hands, which are clasped together. “Yeah.” He gives her hand a tighter squeeze. “I get that.”

“I need to call Cheryl, I guess.” She’s known it for a long while now, known Cheryl is the person most likely to have information on Polly and Jason’s relationship that she doesn’t, but the prospect of talking to her has only gotten less appealing since Cheryl’s whole _the River Vixens send their regards_ stunt. She shouldn’t let Cheryl get to her, she knows that, it’s just…

Polly’s voice echoes in her mind, from the day Betty tried out for the River Vixens: “Cheryl’s really even not that bad once you get to know her.” _Like hell she isn’t_ , Betty thinks, and then Cheryl and Polly and the whole mess all get jumbled up in her brain. She tries shaking her head to clear things, but her thoughts just get more and more tangled until she suddenly can’t separate any of them out.

“Betty,” she hears—dimly, through some sort of auditory fog. “Betty. Hey.”

She blinks a few times, which only emphasizes the tears that have formed in her eyes.

“Sorry,” she says, meaning to wipe the tears away, but Jughead’s holding both her hands now, almost like he’s trying to uncurl them, and _oh, god_. She really hasn’t done that all summer; why did she have to start now?

(And what if he finds out?)

“Don’t apologize, Betts.”

(She doesn’t feel like she’s broken the skin, at least.)

Jughead pulls her close, holding her against his chest, and she can’t decide if she would rather refrain from crying on him _again_ this summer or just let go completely. This results in a weird middle ground of moderate heaving and a couple of hiccups. Finally, she succeeds in taking a deep breath, at which point she realizes all over again how good it feels to be close to Jughead. And with that realization, she’s okay. Her hands aren’t even clenched; they’re pressed flat against his collarbones, a move she hadn’t even realized she’d made.

She takes one more deep breath, and hugs him a little tighter. Okay she may be; that doesn’t mean she’s willing to let go.

“Hey,” he murmurs, into her hair. She expects—well, she doesn’t know exactly, but something soothing or comforting—but what Jughead says next is, “Want to get ice cream?”

This elicits an uncontrollable chuckle from her. “You think ice cream is going to help?”

She feels his shoulders lift and fall again. “It usually helps me.”

“Yeah, okay,” she agrees, because honestly? Ice cream sounds great right about now.

He releases her, all but her right hand, and they start walking towards the local ice cream parlor.

“Just don’t tell Cheryl I’m eating my feelings,” she says, once they’re parked at a table with their sundaes. “Or do tell her. I guess I don’t really care.”

A faint scowl crosses Jughead’s face, the same one he gets any time she says anything vaguely negative about food. For the first time, she picks up on what it really means, a point emphasized by the violence with which he stabs through the whipped cream and hot fudge. Her heart swells a little, and she resolves not to make any more comments like that—especially since she really, truly, is okay with what she sees in the mirror.

“Hey.” She nudges Jughead’s leg with her knee, and he looks up. “Just—forget I said that, okay?”

He nods, but doesn’t say anything, which she assumes is because his mouth is full.

 _You’re a good boyfriend_ , Betty thinks, but she blushes instead of saying it out loud.

* * * * *

The most surprising thing about having a girlfriend—aside from the fact that he has one at all, of course—is how much he likes touching her. How much he likes being touched by her. It’s not like _that_ , not in the slightest; despite their complete lack of adult supervision, a week into their relationship, no one’s hands have gone anywhere an adult would find inappropriate. And he’s long known Betty Cooper gives the best hugs, which he’s sure is not any less true for the fact that Betty Cooper is pretty much the only person who’s hugged him in… forever.

(Except for Jellybean. But little sisters get judged by a different set of criteria.)

(And his father before they left the bus station, he supposes, but that definitely doesn’t count.) 

What surprises Jughead most is how quickly he’s grown accustomed to Betty’s hand in his as they walk, her arm draped across his leg as they pore through old newspaper articles for evidence of old William Cooper, her weight against his side as they watch movies on his laptop. He’s surprised by how encouraging it feels when she squeezes his bicep, and how, when she goes back to her own room at night, the absence of her almost burns.

And, yeah, he likes kissing her a lot too.

All of this would be well and good if the halfway point of summer wasn’t well in the rearview mirror by now. If they had more than a few weeks left before the scheduled demolition of their idyllic little bubble. Because once they go back to Riverdale, well. School will be the very least of Jughead’s problems. He knows Betty’s at least a little eager to get back; despite all the anxiety they seem to cause her, he suspects that she misses her parents. He knows she misses Kevin, too, and even Archie. And he knows how much she misses having her own bedroom, one without a permanent installation of lacrosse players.

Jughead, on the other hand, doesn’t even know where he’s going to live. All he knows is that wherever it is will not have his current level of luxury, like a relatively comfortable bed, working toilet, and three free meals a day. His mother has given no indication that she intends to come back from Toledo, and he’s not certain he can face life alone, with F.P., in that trailer. He’s tried brainstorming some other options; the best one is the projection booth at the Twilight—and _that_ won’t work, seeing as he’s no longer the projectionist there.

And then even the possibility of living at the Twilight is suddenly, cruelly, yanked away from him.

They’re halfway through a Friday night quasi-date of microwave popcorn and _Some Like It Hot_ (illegally downloaded, with Swedish subtitles) when a video chat request from Archie pops up. Jughead, confused, looks at Betty; she looks back at him, equally confused, and he shrugs and answers it.

“Hey, Jughead,” Archie says. The connection they have isn’t great, but even through the pixilation, it’s clear Archie is worried about something.

Betty leans into the frame and waves. “Hi, Archie!”

If Archie is surprised that Betty is in Jughead’s room at nine o’clock at night, he doesn’t let on.

“Oh, hey, Betty. Um… shoot. I have—I don’t really know how to say this. But I wanted you to hear it from me.” He takes a deep breath. “Jughead, Mayor McCoy—well, the city, really—they sold the Twilight.”

“They did what?” Betty gasps.

“Yeah. Uh…” Archie reaches up a hand, rubs the back of his neck. “It’s sold. To some developers.”

“Developers,” Jughead says flatly. He has to be flat; it’s the only way to combat the rising wave of panic coming from inside his stomach.

Archie nods. “They’ve been keeping it kind of a secret. I just found out today, and I only found out because my dad’s been bidding on the project.”

“The _project_.” Jughead already knows what that means, but he tries clinging to the hope that it doesn’t. This lasts all of five seconds.

“The rebuild,” Archie says. “The teardown starts tomorrow. I’m—I’m so sorry, Jug.”

“Yeah.” Even Jughead is surprised at how much bitterness he’s able to pack into the word.

Archie and Betty talk for a while after that, but Jughead can’t bear to listen to them. Part of him wants to go break something—a window, some of that junk behind the projection booth, the heads of people who don’t appreciate a great cinematic experience—and part of him just wants to cry. His halves at least agree that they want to do neither of these things in front of Betty, and so he ends up curled in a ball at the far end of his bed, staring blankly at the bed railings while his blood simmers. If he had been there—if he had stayed in Riverdale—could he have prevented this?

“Juggie?” Betty’s voice is soft, a little nervous; he can tell she’s still down at the ladder end of the bed, meaning he must currently look too feral to approach.

He just shakes his head.

“I know how much the Twilight means to you.”

“No, you don’t,” he says bluntly. “You have _no idea_.”

In his peripheral vision, Betty flinches ever so slightly.

“It’s a cultural institution.”

“I know,” she says. “I’m going to miss it too.”

“Will you just—” He doesn’t know how he ought to finish the sentence, only that however he does finish it, he’ll regret later. The words come out anyway. “Don’t patronize me, okay? Just—leave me alone. I need to be alone.”

There’s a pause, and then Betty says “Okay,” and starts climbing down the ladder. He can’t look at her. 

Jughead knows he should apologize preemptively, knows he should tell her all the things the Twilight is to him: the setting of nearly all his best childhood memories, the site of his first paying job, the place he first saw most of his favorite movies, the place he sleeps when he can’t stand to be at home. He knows he should tell her all of that, and not push her away.

He pushes her away.

“Just go, Betty.” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

And he _does_ see her the next day, close to first thing in the morning. He’s gone for an early morning angry stalk around wherever his legs will take him; Betty, apparently, has opted for a more productive early morning run. He spots her coming around a bend, and quickly turns ninety degrees, keeping his eyes downcast; with any luck, he’s far enough away that she’ll find it socially acceptable to ignore him, which he’s sure she would prefer to do. He’s got headphones on, after all; it’ll be easy for both of them to pretend they didn’t notice each other.

It somehow doesn’t occur to him that she’s moving a lot faster than he is. But there she is, in front of him all of a sudden, in an old River Vixens t-shirt and unfairly tiny shorts, and he’s forced to stop and confront—whatever. Not her, exactly. The aftermath of his shitty coping mechanisms.

He takes the headphones off. “Betty.”

“Hi,” she says. “Sorry. I’m a little sweaty.” Before he can ask why she should be sorry for sweating, she’s hugging him. Not _just_ hugging him; she’s kissing him on the cheek, too.

“Don’t apologize,” he mutters. Only the knowledge that she hates the word keeps him from adding _you’re perfect_.

“You okay?”

“No,” he admits, well aware that he’s neither slept nor showered and probably looks terrible.

“You want to talk about it?”

He doesn’t. But he can tell she wants him to, and she isn't running away. And so, for her, he’ll try.

They head to the dining hall. Once Jughead’s spilled his guts about all the times his parents smuggled in him and Jellybean in the trunk of his mom's car, and when he was nine and he’d go over on Sunday mornings because the now-retired manager had paid him a nickel for every piece of Saturday night double feature trash he could pick up (he’d made good money that way), and yeah, even that he’d crashed there a couple of times when things at home got particularly awful, it occurs to him that not once has confessing a horrible secret to Betty been anywhere near as bad as he imagined it would be.

 _You know that’s just going to make it hurt more when you get back to Riverdale and she comes to her senses_ , says the voice in the back of his mind.

He swallows hard, and thinks: _you shut up_.

“You were gone all that time, and your mom really just asked if you’d eaten all the peanut butter?”

He has the feeling Betty would be crying on his behalf if she wasn’t completely bewildered by the idea that a parent could have so little involvement in their child’s life as to not know where they’d been sleeping.

“Well, it was me,” he says, trying to smile a little. “It’s not the most unreasonable question.”

“Jughead.”

She’s trying to smile a little too, though. He nudges her under the table, she nudges back, and the world remains on kilter.

“She tried, I think. My mom. She just…” He takes a slow breath in and out. “You know, my parents didn’t even get married until three months before I was born. They had to wait for my mom to turn eighteen.”

Betty blinks. “No, I didn’t know. That’s—wow. I can’t even imagine.”

“And of course my dad is Fred’s age, so even without the alcoholism, the odds were probably pretty low.” 

“She loves you, though, right?” There’s a death grip on his arm now. “I’m sure she loves you.”

“Yeah, I mean…she _says_ she does.” For the first time, Jughead forms the conscious thought that despite his father’s ten thousand shortcomings, he has never actually doubted that F.P. loves him. His love just manifests in spectacularly dysfunctional and inappropriate ways.

“That’s so hard,” Betty murmurs, her voice just barely above a whisper. She tugs him a little closer, and he could swear he can feel her heart beating twice as hard, like it’s trying to work for the both of them.

For two or five or ten minutes, he tries to let it.

“Oh, by the way, I need your help later today.”

“Okay,” Jughead says at one, somewhat relieved to change the subject. “What with?”

“Cheryl.” A little muscle flexes at the side of Betty’s jaw. “We’re supposed to video chat before lunch.”

“Cheryl didn’t take kindly to me trying to talk to her the last time,” he points out.

“I know. You don’t really have to do anything. I could just use some moral support and a second set of ears.”

That, Jughead thinks, he can do. They both shower and change when they get back to the dorm, and then he heads down to Betty’s room; there’s a lacrosse tournament or something, so Betty’s roommate (and her ten thousand friends) won’t interrupt.

Betty’s propped up on a bunch of pillows at the head of her bed, laptop at the ready, her still-wet hair back in a ponytail. He’s pleased to see that she hasn’t put on makeup to deal with Cheryl. She’s Betty Cooper, just as she is, which is obviously enough to take on the world—and certainly enough to take on Cheryl Blossom.

“Come on up,” she says, patting the space beside her. Jughead takes his shoes off and climbs up. For some reason, it feels odd to do so, even though Betty’s been in his bed a hundred times by now. He settles against the wall perpendicular to her, out of Cheryl’s sight but close enough to squeeze Betty’s…well, her leg, if needed. Above her bare feet. Jughead knows he’s seen Betty barefoot before. They’ve been swimming together, after all. But for her to be barefoot now feels oddly meaningful. He glances away from her feet (and her legs), to his left, where he realizes the River Vixens shirt she was wearing earlier has been discarded at the end of her bed.

A chirp comes from Betty’s laptop.

“And so it begins,” she sighs, before pasting on a bright smile and clicking something. “Hi, Cheryl.”

“Elizabeth,” comes Cheryl’s voice.

“How are you doing?”

Even though he can’t see the screen, Jughead’s sure Cheryl’s eyes are rolling. “Let’s not waste time on meaningless civilities. Inform me, please, of why your sister hasn’t returned a single call or email in more than a month.”

“I don’t know.”

“Loathe as I am to depend on the labor of peons, since Polly isn’t taking my calls, I’m afraid I’ll have to say this: _ask her_.”

“No,” says Betty.

Cheryl gives a huffy sigh. “Am I to assume she’s not taking your calls either?” Betty remains silent, her lips pursed slightly as though she’s not sure how to respond. “I know you’re not at home,” Cheryl continues. “I know our dear Pollikins isn’t either—don’t look so shocked. Did you imagine I wouldn’t deign to stake out your house? Polly hasn’t been home in weeks. But has she really abandoned her beloved little limp dishrag of a sister?”

“Why would you think I’m going to help you if you’re just going to insult me?”

“I wouldn’t,” Cheryl responds. “I’m also starting to think you can’t.”

“I—”

“Good. That answers that question.”

“What question?” Betty asks.

“All is well. Ta-ta.”

Betty blinks at the screen a couple of times.

“She hung up.”

“So…” Jughead tries to start putting the pieces together. He’s more certain than before that whatever else she is, Cheryl Blossom is _not_ in mourning.

“Cheryl thinks I can’t help her find Polly,” Betty says. “That means she doesn’t know where Polly is, which we knew already. But why is she looking for Polly? Is it just because she wants to talk about Jason? But we know she doesn’t even really like Polly that much. Or, we know she didn’t like the idea of Polly and Jason dating.”

“And she said ‘That answers that question,’” Jughead adds. “What does it mean?”

“So she’s… she’s satisfied with not knowing where Polly is, as long as I also don’t know?” Betty closes her laptop and stares at the ceiling. “God, she’s so aggravating. Why is she so aggravating?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” His eye lands back on the crumpled River Vixens shirt. When he glances back at Betty, she’s looking at it too.

“I usually just sleep in it,” she says, her voice a little small. She sets the laptop aside and crawls over to sit closer to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. “It was Polly’s, obviously. She gave it to me before I auditioned last year.”

“Why’d you even want to join the River Vixens?” It’s a question that he thinks, now, might have been bothering him for a while without him ever having fully articulated it. For all he’s learned about Betty since her audition—and particularly, how ambivalent (if not outright hostile) she is over the whole Perfect All-American High School Girl thing—he can’t shake the notion that cheerleading is _exactly_ what the Perfect All-American High School Girl would want to do.

Betty shrugs against him. “I don’t know. I just always did. I…” She sighs. “Polly made the squad her freshman year, and she loved it, but it wasn’t that. It was—my parents used to take us to the football games sometimes when we were little, even before Polly got to high school. And the River Vixens, they just always looked so _powerful_. Like, here was this group of girls doing these amazing things, throwing each other in the air and stuff. And they knew everyone was looking at them, but it always seemed to me like they didn’t care about that. They just kept doing these amazing things because they could, and they wanted to. And—and it always seemed like they were friends. I always imagined all of them were really good friends, and… well, I wanted that too, you know? I’ve never really had any close female friends. It was always just Archie, or Kevin and Archie, or you and Kevin and Archie.”

She sits up for a moment, stretching and rearranging herself against the wall, and looks at him.

“Does that sound crazy?” 

“Not at all.”

And even though Jughead has never in his life wanted to join any sort of team, he means every word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everybody who left a comment on the last chapter. If you're feeling so inclined, I'd love to know what you thought of this one, too.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betty and Jughead's summer adventures may be winding down; this fic, however, is apparently not. (Will it ever?)
> 
> Featuring: Marcy and Tomoko's Personal Interactive Soap Opera, Jughead's second bed finally getting put to good use, and some good old-fashioned making out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diaphenia is a beautiful tube of Cheryl Blossom's lipstick (which is CoverGirl, I'm sure).

She’s hanging out in Marcy and Tomoko’s room one evening when comprehension dawns: the summer is almost over. She’s known it, known it for a good long while: calendars at work say so, for example, and she has a date and time for when her mother will come pick her up. Still, it takes Marcy asking questions for Betty’s end-of-summer sensor to truly go off. 

She’s not sure, yet, whether she’s happy about the change in season. 

“So you and Jughead are, like…” Marcy pauses, looking for all the world as though she’s struggling to find the appropriate word even though Betty suspects there are several that would do. The fact is, though, it’s taken over a week of Marcy shooting them weird looks at mealtimes for her to even get this far. “Together?”

“Yeah,” Betty says, a smile automatically unfolding. She and Jughead haven’t engaged in any terribly explicit public displays of affection in front of their friends, but nor have they actively tried to keep anything under wraps. Definitively added to Betty’s mental list of surprising-but-sweet things about Jughead Jones: he’s _really_ into holding her hand.

Marcy’s brow furrows. “Okay, but—don’t take this the wrong way, Betty, but—”

“Weren’t you in love with that other guy two weeks ago?” Tomoko interjects.

“Exactly,” Marcy says, blushing furiously.

“It was a month ago, and no, I wasn’t. I was just…” Truth be told, Betty’s not really sure what she was. Childish? Willfully ignorant? In love with an idea of a person, rather than the person himself? Not seeing the forest for the trees? “Confused,” is what she settles on.

“And now you’re not?” Marcy asks, sounding more than a little skeptical.

“Definitely not.”

Marcy sits up a little straighter. “You definitely like Jughead?”

“Yes,” Betty says, feeling something prickle inside her stomach. “I definitely do. Why?”

“Nothing.” There’s a long pause, and then Marcy adds, “It’s just, he doesn’t seem like your type.”

Thoughtful and supportive? No, not Betty’s type at all. She rolls her eyes, although she does have to admit she’s got a more privileged view of the situation. Then it occurs to her that Marcy might mean physically—but there again, what about Jughead, physically, is not to like?

“What do you think is my type?”

“Someone more outgoing?”

That, Betty supposes, makes a little sense.

Tomoko shrugs. “They say opposites attract, right? And Jughead’s cool, I guess.”

Marcy nods in agreement. “Hey, I got an interview to work at the comic book store near my house this fall,” she says. “Think I’ll meet anyone there?” The conversation, mercifully, shifts to Marcy’s type, which—to Betty’s surprise—turns out to be less Tolkien obsessive and more John Boyega.

And that’s when it hits Betty that their time is running out—or actually, it’s not, since they’re going home to the same place. Given that she has both the desire and the ability to turn what could be a summer fling into something longer-term, she’s not sure why this realization that their time in Brook Glen is almost up is making her feel suddenly anxious.

Only when she’s in Jughead’s room later that evening can Betty put a finger on why she feels a little prickle of bother. It’s not the end of summer, per se. It’s that Tomoko and Marcy still don’t know her very well. They’ve still never met Archie, never seen the way Betty used to look at him; to be fair, she technically hasn’t either, but she’s sure her unrequited crush was both visible (to everyone but Archie) and embarrassing (though probably only to her, and not at all to Archie). They do, however, know Jughead.

And if those two girls, under these particular circumstances, can’t quite believe they’re a real couple, then how is Riverdale High going to react? Or, rather, how are Archie and Kevin going to react? Betty can’t think of anyone else whose opinion she truly cares about—no, wait, she can. Ethel, but only because she isn’t one hundred percent sure Ethel’s seventh-grade crush on Jughead has dissipated. If her crush lingers, which it very well might, the three of them working on the paper together has the potential to be extremely awkward indeed.

It’s all starting to seem much more complicated than it ought to, and in a way that’s making her stomach churn.

“Jughead?”

They’re both in his bed, reading. Jughead lays on his back, knees bent, his lone pillow folded in half under his head. Betty sits perpendicular to him against the wall, her back cushioned well enough by a couple of his hoodies. Her legs, which have nowhere else to go, are pressed against his (this is the most comfortable part of their seating arrangement).

He looks up.

“You… you like me, right?”

“No,” he says at once. “What would have given you that idea?” He closes his book, using his finger as a bookmark, and shuffles into a somewhat more upright position, propped up on his elbows.

“Juggie.”

He studies her for a moment, eyes clouded over, and she notes the tightness in his throat as he swallows once. “How much have I screwed up that you even need to ask?”

Instantly, a hot and uncomfortable wave washes over her. “No. No, I didn’t—Juggie, you’re wonderful. I meant it rhetorically.”

“That’s a hell of a rhetorical question, Betts,” he says, eyes remaining fixed on her.

Betty puts her own book aside, sliding a bookmark in before she closes it, and crawls down to the end of the bed to be closer to Jughead. “I know. It came out wrong.” She’s about to say _I’m sorry_ (which she is) but takes a deep breath, and Jughead’s hand, instead. “I was just thinking… we’re going home soon. And I don’t—I don’t want things to change. I mean, I know they’ll have to change a little bit, since we’re not going to be living in a dorm and all. But I don’t want things to change between us.”

He nods slowly and slips his other hand out of the book, seemingly untroubled by the loss of place as its covers close. The newly freed hand drifts over to rest on her bare knee; it’s surprisingly cool against her skin.

“I don’t want that either,” he says quietly.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Jughead echoes.

The hint of a question remains on his slightly parted lips. Betty’s fairly sure she can guess what it is, and finds she’s mad at herself for making Jughead even imagine that he might have to imagine such a thing.

“Good, because I like you a lot,” she says, and then in a rush of something—a rush of some weird, paradoxical combination of confidence and inadequacy—her body orders a backup demonstration. Suddenly she’s straddling him, half kneeling and half hovering over his hips, pushing herself onto him for a hard and messy kiss. His lips part readily, tongue swiping against hers, and his hands move to a light grip on her waist.

It’s not enough.

Betty sits on her heels just the slightest bit, shifting her weight so she can move her own hands off the mattress. One finds purchase on Jughead’s shoulder, her fingers at the seam of his thin t-shirt while the base of her thumb pushes into his collarbone; the other only makes it as far as his chest. Jughead breaks the kiss then, panting slightly, and pulls back just enough so he can sit further upright. One hand remains on her waist, gripping more tightly as he moves.

“Okay,” he breathes, once he’s in position. Half a second later, she’s kissing him again. His other hand slips into her hair, but doesn’t get very far, and Betty—annoyed at the interruption in kissing—abruptly sits up and pulls her ponytail loose.

She’s about to get right back to business, but something in his expression gives her pause. Another unasked question, maybe. 

“What?”

Jughead shakes his head once, licking his lips slightly, and then slides his hand behind her ear and kisses her so hard, so _thoroughly_ , that a fire starts up in the pit of her stomach. She leans into the fire, moving her own hands back to where they were before, for balance—one on his shoulder, one on his chest.

Some combination of the movement of their bodies and the relative looseness of Jughead’s t-shirt makes the hand she has on his chest slip. Betty lets it go, allows it to slide down his ribs and across his stomach, until it hits the waistband of his jeans and gets stuck there. She pushes up, tangling and then disentangling her fingers from his undershirt.

When she reaches the bare skin of his abdomen, the entire world goes blindingly white.

Either too much or not enough time has passed when they finally wind down. By now Jughead is on top, gazing down at her with his hat and his smile equally askew. The former she reaches up and knocks off entirely; the latter, she gives a single, much more chaste, kiss. All the rest of their clothes are still on, and Betty mostly knows that this is a good thing—that she isn’t truly ready for more. Yet. But the fire that started in the pit of her stomach has moved, euphemistically, much farther south.

Jughead moves off her, still breathing heavily. He glances at his hat, and for a moment, Betty expects him to put it back on. But he leans back against the wall and rakes his fingers through his hair instead.

“I think I like answering your rhetorical questions,” he says, with just the right amount of sarcasm.

Another question— _how is Archie going to react?_ —gets answered just a few days later, when Tomoko and Marcy burst into the copyediting offices five minutes before work ends.

“What’s up with you guys?” Betty asks. They both look like they’re about to explode.

Marcy grabs her arm and pulls her towards the nearest window. “Tell me that’s not him.”

Standing right outside their building, hands in pockets, looking both hopeful and lost, is none other than Archie Andrews.

“Oh, my god,” Betty breathes. She grabs her things, says a quick goodbye to her supervisor, and rushes towards Acquisitions at top speed—only to collide with Jughead in the hall.

“I just got the craziest text from Archie,” he says. “Something about making up for the Fourth of July?”

“Yeah. He’s _outside_. Like, now.”

Jughead’s expression becomes completely unreadable.

Archie looks up at the sound of four interns bursting out the door, and gives them a sheepish grin. “Surprise,” he says.

No one seems to know whether or not they ought to hug, so they don’t; Betty introduces Marcy and Tomoko instead.

“Arch…” Jughead looks around—at the trees, at the sky, at Betty—and runs a hand under his hat to scratch his head. “What the hell?”

Archie nods a couple of times at nothing in particular. “I came to see you guys, like we talked about.”

“Like we talked about over a month ago?” Jughead’s arms are folded over his chest now, and Betty has to fight the urge to run over and grab his hand. “We’re coming back in less than two weeks. Why _now_?”

Betty’s oldest friend takes a deep breath, shoving his hands as far into his pockets as they’ll go, and sighs; it’s only then Betty notices that he looks absolutely terrible, like he hasn’t eaten or slept in a few days. 

“Archie,” she says, slowly, “is everything okay?”

Archie swallows hard, glances from Betty to Jughead and back again. “Not really.” He swallows again. “Can we try that whole pizza thing again?”

* * * * * 

“Trying the whole pizza thing again” would almost certainly go more smoothly had Marcy and Tomoko not tagged along to the pizza parlor, eyes wide and delighted like they’re watching their own personal interactive soap opera. From the pink tinge Betty’s neck takes on when Jughead shoots a questioning look at the other girls, then at her, he can surmise they know _much_ more about the situation than Archie does.

He cannot surmise how Betty feels about the sudden and unexpected appearance of the longtime object of her affections. The _former_ object of her affections, he tells himself. “Former” is the operative word.

(Right? Right.)

(Right?)

Betty, thankfully, manages to shepherd Marcy and Tomoko into the ladies’ room upon arrival; from there she sends him a text to say they’ve promised to keep quiet about what they know. He shoves his phone back in his pocket with a very, very slight sense of relief, and turns his attention to Archie, who’s showing off the driver’s license he’s been allowed to get a few months early, thanks to a DMV exemption for “family circumstances,” a.k.a. Archie working for the family business.

“So your dad let you have the truck for a couple days?”

Archie nods. “Just tonight, really. I have to go back tomorrow.”

“And you didn’t tell us you were coming… why?”

“Good thing you have a spare bed, Jughead,” says Tomoko brightly, as the girls return to their table, and Archie—who was clearly about to keep going—clams up.

Betty spends the entire dinner sitting up unnaturally straight and guiding the conversation to unnaturally neutral topics. Without telling an outright lie, she manages to describe their recent afternoon in the woods in such a way that it would be easy to imagine the two of them had been in a large group of people, not alone and cuddling on a picnic blanket. Behind her endlessly pleasant smile, he catches a flicker of anxiety in her eyes. He thinks there’s more than a flicker of anxiety in Archie’s eyes, too, and can’t decide why he thinks that might be. Residual bad feelings over rejecting Betty? Have his feelings _changed_ since he rejected Betty? Is that why he’s here?

Jughead looks down at his plate, and realizes he’s petered out halfway through his second slice of pizza.

Back on campus, they finally manage to ditch Marcy and Tomoko. He and Betty walk Archie to the truck to pick up his duffle bag, and then the boys head to Jughead’s room sans Betty. (Archie, of course, didn’t think to bring sheets or pillows; Betty, of course, has extras.)

“This is nice,” Archie says, with a decent amount of enthusiasm. “Wow, Jug, you even decorated.”

Jughead scoffs a little. “That’s not exactly a decoration,” he says, as Archie approaches the not-murder board for a better look.

When Archie turns around, he’s unnaturally pale. “You guys are looking into Jason Blossom’s death?”

He shrugs. “Kind of, yeah.”

“But why? It was an accident.” Archie turns back to the corkboard, scans it again. “And what does Polly have to do with it? Or these old people?”

“Among other things, we’re writing an article on Jason for the school newspaper—and yes, it exists,” Jughead says. He glances at the picture of Polly. “I should probably let Betty fill you in on the rest of it.”

But Archie’s eyebrows have already gone up. “You said ‘we,’” he says, a note of confusion in his voice. “Betty told me she was starting the _Blue and Gold_ back up. You’re… joining it?”

Jughead leans against the ladder to his bed, crosses his arms over his chest, and glares, just a little bit. “Literally everyone has had that reaction,” he mutters. “Why is it so hard to believe?”

“It’s not, it’s just… you don’t join things.” Archie turns the second desk chair around and straddles it, folding his arms across the top of the seat back and resting his chin on top. “No, I get it. I do. Trust me, I know as well as anyone how persuasive Betty can be.”

There’s a light tap on the door, followed by Betty herself, laden with bedding.

“Good thing I did laundry last weekend,” she says brightly, and immediately climbs up the ladder to make the second bed.

Archie stands up at once, reaching up to put a hand on her arm. “Betty, I can do that,” he says earnestly.

She hesitates for a moment, then steps down from the ladder and glances around the room, apparently unsure what to do with herself. Jughead nods at the desk chair next to him, and she takes it. Her hands are curled lightly into fists, he notices.

“So,” says Archie. “Jughead says you’re, uh…” He jerks his head towards the not-murder board. “Why is Polly’s picture up there? Is she involved? Like, aside from being Jason’s girlfriend?”

Betty shoots him a very perplexed look. “You _knew_?”

“No! Well… I didn’t know for sure. Wait, what do you think I knew?”

“That my parents sent her away somewhere not long after I came here.”

Archie flinches. “They did what? No, I didn’t know that. I thought she was just—I haven’t seen her around much.”

“Yeah,” says Betty, “because my parents sent her away somewhere. They won’t tell me where she is.”

“Betty, I swear, I had no idea.”

She nods. “I believe you. You’ve been…busy. I wouldn’t expect you to be spying on my sister anyway.”

“I feel bad, though. Betty, I—both of you. I know I haven’t been the best friend this summer. Things have been…” He looks at Betty, then at Jughead, then at the door. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Jughead unfolds himself, opens the door, and points down the hall; he knows he ought to be a better host and walk Archie down there or something, but it’s been almost three hours since Archie’s surprise appearance and he has yet to find a moment alone with Betty.

He closes the door, making sure the lock doesn’t catch, and turns around. Betty’s standing up now, pacing the room, worried and beautiful and biting her lower lip.

“Betts,” he says; she looks up. “Are you…” He’s honestly not sure what he means; the end of that sentence could be anything from _trying to figure out how to tell him_ to _regretting you ever kissed me_.

“We have to tell him,” she says at once, and the weight Jughead hadn’t realized was pressing on his chest becomes slightly less heavy. “Juggie, I’m so sorry.”

“For what?”

“For—I feel like I must look crazy.”

“You don’t,” he says, and she raises a skeptical eyebrow at him. “A little anxious, maybe.” She’s flexing her fingers into and out of fists, for one thing.

“I just thought—” She steps back, throws her hands in the air. “What is he _doing_ here? I thought we would have time to, you know, plan something out.”

“Do you want me to do it?” he says, surprising the both of them. “I can tell him.” In the morning, maybe, because it’s just now occurring to Jughead that he and Archie have to sleep in the same room tonight, and announcing _I’m dating the girl you rejected_ might make that awkward for both of them.

“What? No.” Betty scowls a little, though he understands she isn’t really angry. “It’s not your job to do it alone.” She sighs. “We don’t even have anything to be nervous about. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No,” he agrees. “It’s just weird.”

The door opens. “What’s weird?” says Archie’s voice.

Betty takes a deep breath and smooths her palms over her nice black pants; with a little shock, Jughead realizes they haven’t even changed out of their work clothes. 

“Nothing, really,” she says. She takes a hesitant step closer to Jughead—well, to both of them, really—and pastes a slightly wobbly smile on her face. “There’s just something we need to tell you.”

Archie plops himself back in the desk chair, same pose as before, and says, “Okay, shoot,” in a tone of voice indicating he expects a weather report.

With a nonchalance that he knows is forced (he can practically hear her heart pounding), Betty crosses the few steps over to Jughead and wraps an arm around his waist.

“We’re dating,” she says simply, as Jughead’s own arm slides over her shoulder of its own accord.

To his credit, Archie’s jaw doesn’t quite drop. His face does turn almost the same color as his hair, though. “Uh… since when?”

“Since a few weeks ago.” Betty’s heartbeat is still going a mile a minute, he can feel it. His probably is, too. “We—we wanted to tell you in person, that’s why we didn’t say anything before now.”

There is a very long, very uncomfortable pause.

“Archie?” Betty ventures, but he still doesn’t seem to have words. Her hand almost darts forward, like she’s going to go comfort him, but she seems to think better of it, and turns to plant a small kiss on Jughead’s cheek instead. “I’m going to get out of these work clothes,” she says. “I’ll be back in a little while, okay?”

Jughead nods. She closes the door quietly behind her, and there he is, alone in his room with his best friend and the truth. He leans over and takes his shoes off, then climbs into his bed and leans against the wall.

After a few moments of silence, he just comes out with it. “Is this going to make things weird?” _Weirder_ is what he should probably say; after all, it’s not like things haven’t been weird between them for the whole damn summer, or possibly even before then.

Archie shakes his head, in an _I can’t believe this_ kind of way, and looks up at him. “Maybe? I don’t know. It _is_ weird. Not a bad weird,” he adds, quickly. “Just… weird.” Jughead has the feeling that Archie has questions; he assumes most of them are fairly reasonable ones, but thankfully Archie doesn’t ask either _how long have you liked Betty_ or _are you sure she isn’t just using you until I grow more brain cells and come to my senses_.

Betty returns in yoga pants and an old t-shirt; shooting a hesitant glance over at Archie, she climbs into her usual spot in Jughead’s bed, and takes his hand. She seems much less anxious than before, but still, she doesn’t stay long before declaring they all ought to go to bed, since it’s the middle of the week and they all have to get up early. Her goodnight kiss is quick and chaste; Archie, Jughead notices, only half looks away.

It’s not until they’re actually in their respective beds with the lights completely off that Archie starts talking.

“I’m glad you guys are happy,” he says. 

“Really,” Jughead replies, flatly. He’s taken off his hat, but now he reaches over and pulls it from the bedpost, clutching it tightly. “That’s it. No…no regrets.”

Even in the dark, he can sense Archie shifting onto one elbow to look at him. Jughead remains flat on his back, though.

“No.” Archie sounds a little incredulous. “Look, I don’t know what Betty told you about what I said to her, but I meant it. I love Betty, I do, but I’ve never seen her that way.”

“Yeah,” Jughead mutters. His grip on the hat lessens very, very slightly.

“How long have you…”

He shrugs, though he knows Archie can’t see him. “A while.” He swallows, and reestablishes a death grip on his hat. “Definitely a lot longer than she’s liked me.”

Archie stays silent for some time, and then says softly, “I think I might be in trouble.”

“Uh, okay.” Jughead rolls onto his own elbow, looking back across the void, and shoves the hat under his pillow. He can just barely make out Archie’s outline. “Is that why you’re here? Running away from something?” That’s not quite the Archie Andrews he’s always known, but it somehow seems like a reasonable guess.

“Not exactly. I… I just needed to talk to someone, and I—god, Jughead, everything’s a mess.”

At this, Jughead sits up and switches on his bedside lamp. It throws a spotlight on his lap and illuminates Archie only slightly; still, he can see the worry on Archie’s face, laid over fatigue and a general sort of upset.

“What’s going on?”

“This… person I was dating, earlier.”

“You broke up.”

Archie nods. “Well, she broke up with me. And I just—I really liked her, Jughead. Like, a lot.”

“Are you going to tell me who she is?”

“I _can’t_.”

“Bullshit,” Jughead says automatically. Hurt flashes across Archie’s face, but—come on, this is bullshit. “You didn’t drive all this way to surprise me here because you couldn’t say ‘I broke up with someone but I can’t tell you anything about her’ over the phone.”

“Look, it’s a weird situation. She’s—” Archie takes a deep breath. “The point is, we were together on July Fourth. We were at Sweetwater River. In the morning.”

Around the time Jason was swept downriver? _That_ makes Jughead’s ears perk up. “And?”

“I don’t know if this has anything to do with anything or not,” Archie says. “But we heard a gunshot.”

Jughead’s first, overwhelming instinct is to pull out his laptop and start taking notes; his second instinct, almost as overwhelming, is to text Betty. He manages to do neither.

“Did you tell the sheriff?”

“No,” Archie says. “I don’t even know if they know there was a gunshot. But—but you can’t tell anyone this, Jughead. No one can know I was there, and especially not with her.” He thinks for a moment. "Except Betty. You can tell Betty, I guess."

“Arch, who the hell is this girl?” Unless it’s—he can’t even imagine what girl in Riverdale would inspire such a level of secrecy. Then one hits him. “Is it Polly?”

“Betty’s sister Polly?” Archie looks both horrified and confused. “No.”

“Well, I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” Jughead says, huffing the last words out in frustration. “Except that the right thing would be for you and this mystery woman to tell Sheriff Keller you heard a gunshot.”

“I can’t do that,” Archie says quietly.

“No,” Jughead retorts, “you _don’t want_ to do that. Which, again, is bullshit.”

“You know,” Archie says, sounding miffed, “you don’t tell me stuff all the time.”

“Do you not see that there are a thousand degrees of difference between me keeping shit about my family from you, and you keeping _information about a potential shooting_ from the authorities?”

“Jughead,” Archie says, after a long silence, “I do _want_ to. I just can’t.”

By now they’re both sitting up, wary, half-glaring at each other across the room. 

“What the hell happened to you?” Jughead says. “Who did you turn into? The Archie Andrews I know always tried to do the right thing.” He rolls onto his other side, so he won’t have to look at Archie’s stupid, cowardly face.

Archie remains silent for so long Jughead’s sure he’s fallen asleep. Apparently not, though. “What shit about your family have you been keeping from me?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“No,” Archie says. Jughead rolls back over and finds Archie looking genuinely concerned, which… yeah, okay. “Dude, I know things have been rough for a while. You never even told me where you moved to last year.”

“Yeah, well, that’s irrelevant at this point,” Jughead mutters. “We moved again.”

Archie blinks. “Really? When?”

“Right before the summer.” He’s suddenly too tired, too _exhausted_ , to care if Archie knows exactly where. “We’re in Sunnyside Trailer Park now.”

“Oh. Is it… is it okay?”

“It’s not really worse than the last house, to be honest.”

There’s a prolonged silence.

“So, are you taking Betty to the back-to-school dance?”

The segue, or total lack thereof, strikes him as so absurd that he almost chokes. “We haven’t talked about it,” he says, “but yeah, if she wants to go, I guess I will.”

“You like her that much?” Archie asks, but the question is so dumb and so rhetorical Jughead decides not to answer directly. He also decides, spontaneously, that he’s _really_ tired of everyone—even his own supposed best friend—automatically assuming he doesn’t want to ever be involved in anything.

(Even if he’s sure he hates dances and Archie had to practically force him to that one party.)

“You know,” he says, trying to sound deliberate, “I had actual reasons not to go to dances last year, aside from upholding my reputation as a hermit.” Archie merely looks confused. “My mom was working nights. I had to babysit.”

“Oh,” Archie says. “Shoot. I’m sorry, Jughead. I didn’t know.”

“I know you didn’t know; I never told you.”

“And your mom’s not working nights anymore?”

All Jughead’s blood runs cold. But tonight is the night for getting it all out there, it seems. He sits up again, but keeps his eyes on his own hands. 

“My mom’s not _here_ anymore,” he says, quietly. “Neither is Jellybean. They moved to Toledo right after school ended.” It occurs to him, now, that there is still a chance—an infinitesimal chance—that they might return before fall. If they do, he thinks, he’ll find a way to take Betty to as many dances as she wants.

He looks up, cautiously, and meets Archie’s gaze.

“What the hell,” Archie says. “ _That’s_ the big thing you didn’t think you could tell me?”

“What?” Jughead mutters, suddenly on the defensive.

“Come on.” His voice is exasperated, of all things. “Look. I know I don’t know what’s it’s like to have—your dad, or to have to move all the time, or—any of that stuff. But your mom leaving? Jug, I know _exactly_ what that’s like.”

It’s like being struck by lightning, a little. And no, Archie doesn’t know _exactly_ what that’s like, Archie’s mother being wildly unlike his own, but… yeah, he sees Archie’s point.

He’s still not sure why Archie felt it necessary to drive all the way down here and essentially not tell him anything. But when he wakes up the next morning to the dulcet tones of Archie snoring in the other bed, he knows for a fact that they’re friends again. It’s barely even weird when they say goodbye.

He relays all the pertinent information (including that he’s finally told Archie his mom left) to Betty over lunch that day, ending with “Although I still have no idea why he came.”

Her gaze and her smile both soften, and she reaches out to take his hand. “Juggie,” she says, “he just missed you, that’s all.”

“He was kind of weird the whole time.”

“Well, of course he was.” Betty shrugs. “Even if we weren’t together, just the fact that the two of us have been here without him, doing this, makes things kind of weird.” 

Jughead ponders this for most of the afternoon, and decides Betty is right. It’s not just that they’re dating, or that they’ve been gone together without Archie; they’ve been gone together doing something touted as a prestigious academic experience for smart people. As many times as Jughead has thought _Archie is an idiot_ , he’s never really meant it, in any sense other than Archie’s failure to fall for one Elizabeth Cooper. But he remembers, vaguely, hearing Archie praise Betty’s intelligence in a way that maybe suggests Archie feels a little inferior in that way. Which… well, Jughead knows perfectly well that Betty gets straight As without really trying (but tries anyway), he himself _could_ get straight As without too much effort, and Archie sometimes struggles to pull down Bs. 

It’s disconcerting, frankly, the realization that Archie might have insecurities that go not just beyond surface level, but way, way beyond there. 

(Plus, he recognizes that his bedroom “decorations” _might_ look a little… obsessive.)

With the Twilight Drive-In mostly gone (according to Archie, who’s sending updates with such regularity and detail that Jughead knows, however much he doesn’t want to think about it, that Andrews Construction won the contract for the teardown), the end of summer weighs more and more heavily on Jughead’s shoulders.

He’s walking outside with Betty one evening when his phone rings—his mother. Betty’s eyes flash down at the number on the lock screen.

“Do you want me to…?” She looks around, as though there’s a door she could pass through.

He shakes his head no (she steps back a few feet anyway), and answers. “Hello?” he says, hoping it’ll be Jellybean.

It’s not. “Hi,” says his mom, who sounds especially neutral today. “How are things? How’s your internship?”

“It’s good,” he says. Also neutrally.

“Your father says—” Jughead inadvertently draws a sharp breath in— “you had a big event a few weeks ago.”

“We did, yeah. It was good.” He swallows. “You’re talking to him?”

“Of course. We had—well, _I_ had to make a decision about the school year.”

He waits for it, heart rising in his chest, hoping against hope.

It’s not a surprise when his mother continues with “I enrolled Jellybean here for the fall.”

Of course she did. Of course. And the fall will turn into the whole school year, just like the summer turned into the fall. He almost asks how much his father’s been drinking, even though he knows full well that whatever F.P. might have told her will not be the truth.

There’s a bench a few feet away from Jughead. He walks over and collapses on it, a tear pricking the corner of his eye. 

“Right,” he says. “Are you…”

“I don’t know, honey.”

“Right,” he says again.

There’s a pause. “Maybe we can spend Thanksgiving together.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Jughead bites the inside of his lip, already sure _maybe we can_ means _we definitely can’t_. Two familiar hands come to rest on his shoulders, and he turns his head to see Betty behind him.

“Look, Jughead,” his mother continues. “I wanted us to be back in Riverdale by now. I did. But it’s just not working out that way.”

“ _It’s_ not working out that way, or you’re just not—”

“None of this is fair to you,” she says, cutting him off. “I know that. Please don’t think I don’t know that. But…” She pauses, and he can imagine her expression exactly: eyes not quite on his, and otherwise totally blank. “When—when we come back—then I need to make sure. Your father and I both need to make some changes.”

Jughead finds he has no idea what _some changes_ means; at least, not on his mother’s end. F.P.’s drinking and lack of gainful employment seem like fairly obvious candidates for improvement.

“So we’re not coming back now. I registered to take my G.E.D. this fall. I need to have that…before.” 

He takes a long breath out, pitching forward so his elbows are resting on his knees, and tries to remember if his mother has ever told him anything so explicitly vulnerable before. He appreciates it, even as the whole thing makes him a little sick to his stomach.

But she didn’t say never. She said now. And he doesn’t think she’s ever, in his entire life, made an even somewhat serious attempt at finishing her high school education.

“And Jellybean?”

(Is she okay with this? Is she okay in general? Is anyone giving her a say?)

“She misses you.” There’s a pause, during which Jughead’s entire chest clenches. “She’s not home right now. I’ll tell her to call you later.”

“Everything okay?” Betty murmurs. She digs her fingers into his upper back a little bit as he nods, wondering exactly how much tension she can feel in fifteen years of knots and tightly coiled springs; wondering if anything is actually okay.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” he says automatically, before quickly deciding no, his girlfriend is the farthest thing from nothing. He shoots another glance backwards at her; she gives him an encouraging little smile. “Betty. That was Betty.”

“Oh.”

Of course, his mother is not going to ask who Betty is; it’s not like she cares to know about—

“Archie’s friend Betty?”

He blinks—not just at her interest, but at the fact she even knows who Betty is. “Yeah. She’s here. She’s an intern too.”

“That’s nice,” she offers, and then—as though the tenor of the conversation wasn’t weird enough already— “That makes me feel better, knowing you haven’t been alone this whole time.”

“There are people here besides Betty,” he points out. But if there’s one thing his mother is great at, it’s leaving her lines far enough apart to drive a semi-truck through, and he knows what to read in between these: had Betty not been here, his subpar social skills would have led him to spend the whole summer not talking to anyone at all. That’s she’s almost certainly correct in her assessment only sends a wave of anger through him. What right does she even have, at this point— _she’s_ the one who left and isn’t coming back—

“Hi, Mrs. Jones!” Betty chirps. She comes around to the front of the bench and sits beside him, crossing her legs primly and folding her hands in her lap, as though she’s trying to make an excellent first impression on a parent who can’t even see her.

She nudges him, and Jughead obligingly mutters “Betty says hi.”

He shifts his phone from the ear farther from Betty to the ear closer to her, which turns out to be a huge mistake, because the next words out of his mother’s mouth are “Is she still pretty?”, and they’re loud enough for Betty to hear. She turns a little pink, but keeps her poise otherwise.

“Yeah.” He casts a sideways glance at Betty. “She is.”

There’s a long pause, and then his mother asks, tentatively, “Will you send me some pictures when you get a chance? I’d like to see what you’ve been up to.”

He takes a long, slow breath. Betty’s hand moves from her lap and comes to rest on his knee.

When he hangs up, he just sits there staring at the phone for a few minutes. It’s the strangest conversation he can remember having with his mother in a long, long time. 

“Everything okay?” Betty asks again, and he nods slowly, not really sure whether he’s lying or telling the truth. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

She shrugs. “Butting in? I just—I have this thing around parents; it’s like a reflex. I don’t even know I’m doing it half the time. I guess it happens even when they’re not actually there.” They’re both silent for a moment, and then Betty hesitantly adds, “So what’s…”

“They’re not coming back yet.”

Betty’s eyes well up with tears. “I’m sorry,” she says, softly. “We’re a pair, aren’t we? The Missing Sister Support Group of Riverdale.” She nestles a little closer to him, tucking her head under his chin, and he wraps his arm around her shoulder and hangs onto her for dear life.

It could be worse, he supposes. At least he knows where his sister is.

“Are you going to tell your mom we’re dating?”

She says it almost as if she thinks he might be embarrassed, which is wrong in so many ways he would never, in a million years, be able to list them all—and not just because Archie is the only person it ought to have been difficult to tell. He’s just not sure his mother is entitled to any information about his life beyond the fact that he isn’t dead. But then a little vindictive streak rears its head, wanting to prove to Gladys Jones that he’s _more_ than okay.

(Which he is, currently, and will be for the next week or so, until he takes another seven-hour bus ride and steps off in Riverdale. Riverdale, where he may or may not have a decent place to live.)

“No. Should I?”

Betty shrugs again. “I haven’t told my parents either. I mean, they know you’re here, but that’s it.”

This makes sense to Jughead. Maple syrup blood feud aside, if Betty’s parents didn’t approve of her sister dating the richest, most well-connected kid in town, he can’t imagine what they’ll think of _him_.

“I will, though, once we’re home.”

He’s contemplating that bit of information when he suddenly he notices Betty’s got her phone out and has switched it to selfie mode.

“Uh… what are you doing?” 

“Taking a picture,” she says, although he’d picked up on that. “We don’t really have any of us together, you know?”

“And you want them?” His mind flashes to her bedroom, with its forty thousand snapshots lining the walls, and he realizes how dumb the question is. She’d want them even if they weren’t dating. 

“I’m still mad at myself for not getting any the night of the Toni Morrison thing,” she says, snuggling in closer to get them both in frame. Her voice takes on a teasing note. “I might have to make you put the suit back on.”

And thus, the first selfie comes out with Jughead looking both embarrassed and pleased.

“You could smile, you know,” she tells him, after the second and third attempts.

“I’m trying.” _Betty Cooper wants pictures of us as a couple_ , he thinks, and thus, he manages to look pretty damn delighted in the fourth attempt. Unfortunately, Betty’s blinking in that one.

“One more,” she says. This time she turns her head and plants a kiss on his cheek as she takes the picture, and thus, the fifth selfie becomes a definite keeper. She texts all five to him, even the one where she’s blinking. 

“That’s definitely the one I should send my mom,” he jokes, just before Betty’s lips meet his and she’s kissing him for real.

Later that night, he loads the fifth picture into a text message to his mother. He looks at it for a good long while, then deletes the message without sending it.

He imagines sending it to Archie, too, but the urge is easily resisted.

* * * * *

The last of their time in Brook Glen rushes by entirely too fast for Betty’s taste, but somehow also not fast enough. That summer is really, truly over _in a week_ is a fact that’s been turning over and over in her mind since this morning, when she received an email from the Riverdale High front office to inform her that she’ll have a new student to show around on the first day—a fellow sophomore Betty gets to fantasize about befriending for all of three seconds before her eyes land on the information that this girl is transferring to Riverdale from Spence, of all places. The cognitive dissonance of _that_ juxtaposition has left the whole thing feeling vaguely unreal, and therefore not a threat to her happy summer bubble.

“I can’t believe you didn’t find anyone to hook up with this summer,” Kevin sighs one night. “It was the perfect opportunity to un-break your heart.”

It’s the first time they’ve had a proper talk since her not-quite-24-hours in Riverdale; he’s been visiting his grandparents, and with one thing and another, they just haven’t made the time. He’d called her on video chat almost immediately upon his return to Riverdale, bearing the unfortunate news that Cheryl Blossom has taken it upon herself to inform the entire town that Polly is in the looney bin (Cheryl’s words, apparently, not Kevin’s). How Cheryl has guessed this, Betty can’t possibly fathom.

“I mean, I was in Colorado for less than three weeks, and— _ohmygod_. Elizabeth Cooper.”

“What?” Betty asks, though she’s well aware her face must have betrayed her.

“You did,” Kevin says flatly. “Tell me everything.”

She takes a slow breath in and out, and nods. “Okay, but you have to promise not to be weird about it. I was going to tell you as soon as I got home, I swear.”

“Please let this be as amazing as I’m already imagining.”

“I’m, um,” she starts. It’s not that she’s embarrassed; she’s the farthest thing from embarrassed—and frankly, telling Kevin ought to be easier than telling Archie, aside from her vague sense that Archie understands Jughead’s good qualities in a way Kevin never will. “Dating Jughead?”

Kevin’s jaw drops. “Is that a question?”

“No,” Betty says quickly, shaking her head. “No, it’s not. We’re—you know.”

“Jughead Jones.”

She nods.

“Moody, antisocial, vaguely sociopathic Jughead Jones?”

“Kevin,” she admonishes. “You’ve known Jughead your whole life. He’s not ‘vaguely sociopathic.’”

“You’ve known Jughead _your_ whole life,” Kevin retorts. “Since when is he boyfriend material?”

“I wasn’t expecting it either,” she says, wondering briefly what Kevin thinks makes someone _boyfriend material_. “But we’ve been spending a lot of time together, you know? And this—this hasn’t been the easiest summer for me. Every time I’ve needed someone, he’s been there.”

Kevin considers this for a moment, a thoughtful look spreading across his face. Finally, he shakes his head. “You’re happy?”

She nods. “Jughead’s great,” she says simply.

“If you’re happy, I’m happy,” Kevin says. “Only, I’m going to have to see this before I believe it.”

She hangs up with Kevin a few minutes later, and goes back to stewing over Cheryl Blossom and her inability to keep her giant, overly-lipsticked mouth shut.

A few minutes after that, someone knocks on her door. She opens it to find Jughead on the other side, wearing the most bemused expression she’s ever seen. He holds up his phone, on which she can see what looks like eight or nine text messages consisting only of exclamation points, question marks, and the words _what is happening_.

“What the hell did you say to Kevin?”

Betty bites her lower lip, finding it suddenly hard to hold back a smile; it feels good, really good, to know that somebody (other than Archie) _knows_. She ushers Jughead into her room, where they both climb into her bed.

“He was scolding me for not having hooked up with anyone all summer. And…” She spreads her hands. “Everything just kind of came out.”

“I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this, Betty Cooper,” Jughead says, clearly fighting to hold back his own smile, “but you have the world’s worst poker face.”

“Sorry,” she mutters. Jughead raises an eyebrow at her, then—watching her closely for a reaction—opens up the picture of her kissing him on the cheek into a response.

She nods once, and Jughead hits send.

“Did you ever tell your mom?” she wonders aloud.

“No, but she knows.” Betty shoots him a puzzled look, and he shrugs and says, “I told Jellybean.”

“What did she have to say?”

“That you have terrible taste, of course. And she’s going to make me a playlist of songs she thinks are, quote, ‘good for lovers.’” He smiles a little. “If it’s half as romantic as her Valentine’s Day playlist, we’ll break up by the fourth song. Which will disappoint my mother, apparently. She’s basing all her opinions of you on your behavior at Archie’s fifth birthday party, by the way, which is not an occasion I have any clear memories of.”

Betty can’t remember Archie’s fifth birthday party either. “Speaking of sisters,” she says, “Cheryl Blossom has apparently been announcing to the entire town that my sister is crazy and ‘locked in the looney bin,’ her words. That’s why Kevin called in the first place, to tell me that.”

Jughead winces.

“I don’t know quite what to do about it.”

She’s not as upset as she thinks she ought to be, but she lets Jughead pull her a little closer anyway… and then she thinks _to hell with it_ and just climbs in his lap and starts kissing him. A little drain opens up in the bottom of her mind, and all the bad thoughts start spiraling down it—her family’s problems, Jughead’s family’s problems, the fact that they’re going back to Riverdale very, very soon—

Her mind is _almost_ completely clear when the drain clogs, chokes, and spits up an answer.

“That’s it!” she gasps, not even bothering to move her face more than an inch away. “Polly.”

“Wow. You’re thinking about _Polly_ in the middle of this particular moment?”

“I just—” She leans back against the wall, feeling like her eyes are the size of dinner plates. Everything is so clear now—she knows, she just _knows_. “I just had an idea for how we might be able to figure out where she is.”

“Do tell,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

She smiles. “Is your dad driving down to get you?”

“I wasn’t going to bother asking him.”

“Good,” Betty says. “My mom’s coming to get me. We’ll give you a ride.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- In case the detail struck you: I grew up in a fairly rural area, and it was possible to get a driver's license at 15 for "special family circumstances," which I think were typically farming-related. 
> 
> \- Very soon, I'm going to get to add a special lovely lady to the character tags. SO EXCITED, YOU GUYS. 
> 
> \- Comments make me as happy as Kevin Keller with good gossip :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: three hours in the car with Alice Cooper, Archie Andrews trying real hard, and gratuitous quoting of Shakespeare's Sonnet 18, which I am blaming on village-skeptic (because I can).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diaphenia is a beautiful Gothic horror movie.

“I can’t believe this is it.”

Betty’s voice is quiet as she sweeps her eyes across the office, which is ever-so-slightly decorated for the interns’ farewell party (Betty had decorated it herself, earlier in the day). A half-eaten sheet cake sits at the reception desk; Tomoko spins slow circles in the rolling desk chair that has been Betty’s all summer.

“We’ll keep in touch,” says Tomoko. Marcy nods in agreement. Betty wonders if they will, or if that’s just wishful thinking—though, at the very least, she knows Tomoko will want to know anything they find out about Jason Blossom. She scans the room again, looking for Jughead, who disappeared into one of the corner offices with one of their supervisors a few minutes ago.

For lack of anything better to do, she starts cleaning up after her own party.

Tomorrow morning, her mother will be here to take her and Jughead back to Riverdale. Tomorrow morning, they have a plan to enact. But for now, it’s just her and the end of being a temporary adult.

She and Jughead go for a final walk around campus after dinner that night, hand in hand.

“What did Rachel want to talk to you about?” She’s been dying to ask ever since Jughead reemerged from the corner office looking like his head wasn’t quite on straight, but something in his eye told her it wasn’t anything he was keen to discuss in front of the others. Now that they’re alone, though…

Jughead swallows once. “I don’t know if you remember, but I submitted a short story as part of the application for this thing.”

“And?”

He shrugs. “She gave it back to me with a bunch of feedback, that’s all.”

“Oh. That was nice of her.”

“She said…” There’s a little note of something in his voice—incredulity, maybe. “She said after it’s rewritten, I should consider submitting it to their literary magazine.”

Betty stops dead in her tracks. “She wants to publish it? Juggie, that’s amazing.”

“She didn’t say that. She just said I should consider submitting.” He scuffs the toe of his right foot into the ground, sending a stray pebble skidding across the lawn. “They do an annual issue of student fiction. It’s not that big a deal; they probably say that to everyone who submitted a short story.”

“It’s a huge deal.” A tidal wave of happiness sweeps over her, and she rides it right into Jughead, wrapping him in a hug. “You should be really proud. Even if it doesn’t get published.”

“She had a _lot_ of feedback,” he mutters.

“But that’s good. That means she thinks it’s worth putting the work in.” Releasing him, she takes half a step back, tilting her head as she looks into his eyes. “You are going to do the work, right? You’re definitely going to submit it?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he sighs. A little smile appears at the corner of his mouth. “Why do I have the feeling that you’re going to make sure I do?”

“Because I am.” She wraps her arm around his and pulls him close as they start walking again. “And we’re going to work on this thing where you keep selling yourself short. I’ll beat it out of you with a stick if I have to.”

“Going to mold me into the perfect boyfriend?”

For once, Betty doesn’t even bristle at the word _perfect_. Not much, anyway. It’s not directed at her, which helps, and it’s buffeted by the word _boyfriend_ , which helps even more. 

“I don’t have much work to do there,” she says lightly, and watches in pleasure as Jughead turns pink.

“Oh, um…on that...”

“Yeah?”

Jughead hems and haws for a bit, but finally comes out with a reasonably confident “Do you want to go to the back-to-school dance?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I have to go. I’m on the decorating committee.” She knows that’s not exactly what he meant. He obviously knows she knows, too, because he rolls his eyes at her.

“Do you want to go _with me_?”

The temptation to tease him, to string this out just a little bit longer, lingers on the tip of her tongue: _Jughead Jones, I never thought I’d see the day you would voluntarily attend a school social function_. He does, after all, have to know she’s going to say yes.

But then, teasing might just run counter to her newly articulated mission of stopping him from selling himself short.

“Jughead Jones,” she says instead. “Of course I want to go with you.”

She gets a pleased, lopsided smile in return, and her insides turn to mush. The good kind of mush.

Later—when their not-murder board has been carefully disassembled and packed away, when Jughead’s giant camping backpack has been filled with everything other than his pajamas, tomorrow’s clothes, and his bedding—later, Betty lies against him, curled and tucked under one arm, with her own arm wrapped around his waist, feeling his heart beating strong and true. Her own packing still needs to be completed, but she doesn’t want to think about that just yet.

“I’m going to miss this. Your room.”

Under her ear, Jughead’s chest rises and falls. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

They watch Netflix until late into the night, curled together, forgoing half the movie in favor of slow, soft kissing and fingertips trailing under the edges of clothing. She almost, almost asks if she can sleep there, with him, but can’t quite bring herself to get the words out.

The next morning, they eat breakfast with Tomoko and Marcy and then head to Betty’s room to pack up her last few things, check out of the dorm, and wait, nervously, for the arrival of one Alice Cooper.

Alice Cooper arrives precisely at noon, as planned. At the sight of the familiar car rounding the curve into the parking lot, Betty stands up, her stomach churning lightly despite her small, sensible breakfast. Alice parks the car as directed by the resident assistant and walks over to them. Despite the end-of-summer humidity and the implied casual nature of the occasion, she’s dressed impeccably in a pencil skirt, tailored blouse, and heels. The day is overcast, but her hair still gleams in what little sunlight it can find.

Betty brushes some microscopic lint from her t-shirt and wishes she’d put on something just the tiniest bit nicer.

“Mom,” she says, taking a few steps forward. This puts her squarely into her mother’s arms.

She notes just how well-ironed Alice’s clothes are, even after a three-hour car ride. She also notes extra precision in her mother’s eyeliner, and the smell of hairspray—faint, but not faint enough to have been applied three hours ago. It’s an extra layer of perfection, the kind Alice only applies when something is wrong; the mere appearance of the armor is a sign that there’s already a chink in it. For half a second, Betty wonders what the hell else has happened.

“I’ve missed you,” Alice responds, her voice surprisingly thick with emotion. 

She holds onto Betty for longer than usual, and a little lightbulb goes off over Betty’s head: whatever has been going on with Polly, and regardless of whether Betty has been told the truth about any of it, this summer cannot have been easy on her parents.

Her resolve does not lessen, though, especially not after Alice turns, eyebrow raised, and says, “And this must be the famous Jughead.”

“Mom, you’ve met Jughead before, I’m sure,” Betty says. “He’s—”

“Archibald’s friend, yes.” She shakes Jughead’s hand with a glint in her eye that Betty can’t quite place. “And Betty’s too, now, I suppose?”

Jughead nods. “Thank you for giving me a ride back to Riverdale, Mrs. Cooper.”

Alice waves a hand. “Oh, it’s my pleasure. No trouble at all. Now, let’s get the car packed up. I assume you’ll want lunch before too long, and we don’t want to run into traffic.”

 _Traffic from where?_ Betty wonders, but doesn’t ask. 

The plan is both deceptively simple and astonishingly foolhardy.

Once their suitcases are loaded in the trunk, Betty takes shotgun while Jughead climbs in behind the driver’s seat. As she’d hoped, as soon as she’s settled in the passenger seat, Alice hands over her purse for Betty to place by her feet.

“Oh, I’ve got my backpack up here,” Betty says apologetically, moving her knees to demonstrate. “It wouldn’t fit in the trunk. Jughead, is there room for my mom’s purse with you?”

“Sure,” he says casually. Betty passes it back, keeping an eye on her mother’s expression. Alice, now backing out of the parking spot, does not appear suspicious. Jughead—who has strategically spread his messenger bag and recently-shed flannel shirt across the rest of the backseat—sets the purse on the floor at his feet. He nods at Betty, and she nods back.

Now they just need to keep Alice Cooper’s focus one hundred percent away from the backseat. Betty’s been trying to think of a few conversation topics that might keep her mother’s interest. The problem is that she can’t very well talk about her internship, her resuscitation of the _Blue and Gold_ , or the upcoming school year without running the risk of Alice peering into the rearview mirror to try and get Jughead involved in the conversation. For that matter, even on a topic that doesn’t involve Jughead at all, there’s still every risk of Alice simply interrogating him because it strikes her fancy.

Sure enough, they’re not even on the highway before Alice begins.

“So, Jughead. What made you want to spend your summer working at a publishing house?”

“Betty tells me you’re going to be working on the _Blue and Gold_ with her.”

“And you’re also going to be a sophomore this year?”

“What other extracurriculars are you involved in?”

“What has your father been up to lately? I haven’t seen him around our side of town in quite some time.”

“And your mother?”

“I’m hungry,” Betty announces then, although she isn’t. Jughead sends a grateful look towards the front seat, and she tries to psychically tell him _I’m sorry_. “Can we get lunch now?”

“We’ll stop in half an hour. There’s a lovely little restaurant I know of.” Alice’s eyes slide briefly to Betty. “I don’t want you eating fast food, darling.”

Betty grins—well, grimaces, anyway—and bears it. She grins and bears it through lunch, too, where Alice’s slightly-too-personal personal questions continue until Betty, breaking the rule about how much and how enthusiastically nice girls talk at mealtimes, launches into a monologue on what a summer in copyediting has taught her about the pros and cons of the Oxford comma.

When her mother retreats to the ladies’ room, purse firmly in hand, Betty places both elbows on the table and buries her face in her hands, groaning loudly. A moment later, Jughead’s hand lands on her shoulder.

“On the bright side,” he says, giving her a gentle squeeze, “she hasn’t murdered me yet.”

“That’s true. But only because she doesn’t know what’s really going on.” Betty lifts her head. “How are you holding up?”

He shrugs. “Fine.”

Alice returns from the restroom, sits primly, and signals the waitress for their check. Jughead pulls out his wallet, but he’s waved off. “Don’t be silly,” she says. “It’s no trouble.”

Jughead puts his wallet away. “Thank you, Mrs. Cooper.”

“Why don’t both of you use the facilities while I’m waiting on this,” Alice says. The hairs on the back of Betty’s neck bristle slightly—she is _not_ six years old; she can regulate her own bathroom habits—but she nods and follows Jughead towards the bathrooms anyway.

As she passes her mother’s seat, she glances inside the purse, open on Alice’s lap, and spots it. Their target.

The restrooms are down a hallway; as soon as they’ve turned the corner and are safely out of her mother’s view, Betty reaches out and tugs on Jughead’s sleeve. He turns to her, eyebrows raised. 

“The checkbook is definitely in there. I saw it. It’s right in the inside pocket.”

He nods slowly. “I think I have an idea,” he says. “I think.”

“Can I do anything to help?”

“Talk about something I’d find really boring, maybe?”

“Okay.” Betty stretches up to give him a quick kiss before she goes to the bathroom. As she’s washing her hands afterwards, she examines her reflection in the mirror, tilting her head one way and then the other until she finds the angle at which she most resembles Polly.

She tries to hold the pose, but the illusion breaks almost as soon as it comes; Betty Cooper, not Polly, looks back at her. She turns off the water with a grimace and swipes rough brown paper towels across her wet hands with such ferocity that she almost scratches a knuckle. But then Jughead emerges from the men’s room at the same time she emerges from the ladies’ and shoots her that little lopsided smile, which does a pretty effective job of reminding her that Betty Cooper is not such a bad thing to be.

They get back in the car, and Alice’s purse returns to its place in the backseat—though this time, Betty notices, Jughead’s put it on the slightly raised area just behind the center console, instead of at his feet, keeping it in easier reach.

Since her mother doesn’t seem to have picked up on the fact that Jughead is more than a friend and would therefore find talk of her wardrobe very boring (though, to be fair, a lot of her wardrobe is pretty boring), Betty opens up the second leg of their journey with a discussion of when they might be able to go the Greendale mall for back-to-school shopping. She doesn’t even really need new clothes, or at least she doesn’t think she does, but she knows a Cooper is never anything less than pristine on the first day of school.

As she goes on about button-down blouses and what she’s read about upcoming trends in denim, she hears a very slight stirring behind her. Willing herself not to look, she moves on to finding a dress for the back-to-school dance. 

“I’ve been seeing some really cute retro styles online, like updated 1950s silhouettes? Those might look okay on me. And most of them are very modest. I saw one that was off-the-shoulder that was really cute. And I was thinking white would be nice, if I could find it.”

Alice _tsks_. “Nice as it is to hear you’re taking more of an interest in your appearance, Betty, it’ll be after Labor Day.”

“Mom, that’s an old rule. Nobody follows it anymore.” She sits up a little straighter. “I just thought—I mean, you know, while I still have a little tan from the summer.”

“Yes, I noticed you’ve gotten some color. You wore sunscreen, I hope?”

“Of course,” Betty lies. Half-lies. She did wear sunscreen, just not consistently.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t spend the entire summer indoors.”

“I definitely got exercise,” Betty supplies. “Lots of…hiking. Walking around campus, too—it was really pretty. And I went running sometimes.”

“Good girl.” Alice flicks a glance at the rearview mirror. “Well, it appears someone doesn’t find discussion of your wardrobe nearly as fascinating as you do.”

Jughead chooses that moment to supply a helpful snore. Figuring her mother’s given her an invitation to look, she glances over her shoulder to see that Jughead has fashioned a pillow out of his hoodie and the fold-down center armrest, and is sacked out across the back seat, eyes closed, left hand dangling conveniently close to Alice’s purse.

She keeps her mother talking about clothes for a few minutes longer, until Jughead “wakes up” with a start.

“Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty,” Betty says teasingly. She twists as far as she can in her seat belt, searching Jughead’s face.

He gives her a tiny, decisive nod. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to doze off.”

Alice smiles. “I’m sure you were up late last night, packing,” she says.

 _Packing_ , Betty thinks. She feels a little smile play at the corner of her mouth, and when she glances at the back seat, she sees one on Jughead’s face too.

From inside her own purse, Betty’s phone buzzes. She checks her texts as surreptitiously as she can, holding the phone at an angle so there’s no chance her mother will be able to see the screen.

“Kevin,” she says, in response to Alice’s questioning eyebrow. “Just wondering when I’m getting back.”

The text, of course, isn’t from Kevin at all. _A couple thousand dollars to the Sisters of Quiet Mercy, whoever they are_ , Jughead’s written. _I’m looking it up now_.

 _Okay_ , Betty types back, before launching her own mobile browser.

She finds the website at once, and it’s all she can do to keep a relatively straight face.

“Elizabeth, whatever is the matter?”

Crap. “Oh, just—Kevin went on a weird date,” she improvises. “He’s telling me about it.”

The Sisters of Quiet Mercy isn’t a psychiatric facility, per se, which explains why they’ve yet to run across it in their searches for places Polly might be. That, Betty thinks, and the fact that the Sisters of Quiet Mercy doesn’t even look like a real place. Its bare-bones website claims it’s a “center for troubled and wayward youth,” but the few pictures online make it look more like a Gothic convent, something straight out of an atmospheric horror novel with swirling, perpetual fog. 

She would never have thought to look for Polly in what seems to essentially be a _convent_.

 _Juggie_ , she types into her phone, _this place looks awful._

Not long after she hits send, a message from Jughead pops up. _It’s the Overlook Hotel, run by evil nuns._

_We’ll talk when we get home_ , she texts back. Then she shoves her phone down into her purse and sits on her hands, trying to flatten them underneath her. 

Mercifully, the overcast skies turn dark; soon after, the heavens open. Betty removes her right hand from under herself, leans her elbow into the door, and props her head in her hand to stare at the rain and think. It takes less than three minutes for Alice to remind her, lovingly, not to slouch. 

Even sitting up straight, or at least straighter, the rhythm of water droplets and windshield wipers helps Betty structure her thoughts. After over a month of false starts and red herrings, they’ve almost certainly found Polly; from what Betty can tell, she isn’t very far away at all. Why her parents felt the need to say they’d driven four hours and then spent the night there is a mystery to Betty, but she supposes they had their reasons. Stupid reasons, probably, but reasons nevertheless. 

The rain hasn’t let up by the time they approach the outskirts of Riverdale. In a way, the rain almost makes things feel homier—after all, Riverdale is hardly known for outstanding weather. Though she knows it’s a warm, sticky rain, Betty nevertheless imagines changing into pajamas, making a cup of hot chocolate, and curling up in her window seat with her diary. The thought sends a chill of pleasure into her ribcage, and despite the comfortable temperature of the car, she shivers. 

Alice turns her head slightly. “Where will we be dropping you off, Jughead?” 

“You don’t have to go out of your way,” he says. “I’ll just walk home from your house.” 

“With all your luggage?” 

Betty turns around to give him a friendly scowl. “Juggie, it’s raining.” 

“I’ll hang out at Archie’s until it stops.” There’s a tension in his jaw that’s practically begging her not to push the matter, so she doesn’t. 

“Will your father be working, Jughead?” 

“I don’t know what he’s doing today,” Jughead says, managing a reasonable politeness. “It’s Saturday.” 

“Is he keeping regular hours?” 

“ _Mom_. Enough.” 

“It’s just friendly conversation, Betty.” 

A few minutes later, they pull into the Cooper garage. Betty assures her mother that they’ll take care of unloading the car, and waits impatiently until Alice disappears into the house. 

"We can get there on the bus,” Jughead says, as soon as they’re sure no one is watching. “They have visiting hours on weekdays. We can go Monday.” 

She nods. “And then what?” 

“I don’t know,” Jughead says, pulling her into a hug. “But we found Polly, right? You’re going to see her. We’ll figure out the next thing.” 

Standing there in her garage, with the rain pouring down around them and the humidity in the garage almost unbearable, Betty has the strange sensation that she has stepped right back into her old life only to immediately find herself suffocating in it; that, having spent a summer in metaphorically fresh air, her lungs can’t handle what she grew up breathing. As if to prove the point, her breath hitches in her chest—once, twice, a third time. She holds on tighter to Jughead, certain that in this moment, he’s the only thing keeping her upright. 

“I have to go in there and pretend nothing’s wrong.” Tears start to prickle at the corners of her eyes, but she blinks them back. “I have to spend tomorrow with my parents and act like I don’t know anything about what they’ve put her through. I don’t know if I can do it.” 

"You can,” he says, simply. 

Betty takes a deep breath, and finds that she believes him. She nods again, enjoying the feeling of her head against his chest. “No, I know you’re right. Nothing has changed for Polly in the last couple of days. If she’s been okay until now, she’ll be okay until Monday.” 

_But what if she hasn’t been okay?_ floats to the surface of Betty’s mind. She tries to push it back down. 

Jughead extracts himself from their hug, though he looks as though he’d have preferred to stay in it. “I should probably go before your mom gets suspicious.” 

“Okay.” Betty watches as he loops his messenger bag over his chest, then heaves the camping backpack onto his shoulders. “Call me tonight? Like, when you get home?” 

“Okay,” he echoes. 

Betty presses her lips to his for a brief kiss before he steps out of the garage and disappears into the rain. 

* * * * *

“Jughead,” Fred Andrews says when he opens the front door. “It’s good to see you. Archie didn’t tell me you were back in town.”

“Yeah, I just got back.” Fred steps back to let him in, but he hesitates for a moment; in the forty-five seconds or so it took to walk over from the Coopers’, he’s gotten drenched, and is now dripping on the front porch.

Fred waves him inside anyway. “Coopers give you a ride?” He doesn’t wait for Jughead to nod in response before continuing. “Archie’s in his room. You know where the towels are.”

“Thanks, Fred.” He takes off his shoes, grabs some dry clothes out of his backpack, and checks that his laptop isn’t soaked before heading upstairs. Archie’s just coming out of his bedroom when Jughead makes it to the top of the stairs.

“Hey,” Archie says. “I thought I heard the front door.”

“Betty’s mom gave me a ride back, so…” He shrugs.

Archie glances over his shoulder, to the window that gives a view of Betty’s bedroom—although Jughead doubts much can be seen in this rain. When he turns around again, his brows are knit together. For a moment, Jughead wonders if Archie’s about to ask why he isn’t spending the rest of the day with his girlfriend (which he would willingly do, of course, despite having spent the whole summer with Betty), but that’s not what comes out.

“Um…there’s some stuff in the garage for you. I don’t know if my dad said.”

Jughead raises an eyebrow. “Stuff?”

“Yeah. I guess you probably figured out my dad’s company is the one that tore down the Twilight? I, uh—I kept some things from there, like posters and little stuff. In case you want it. They sold off the projector, though. I couldn’t get that for you.”

Despite the ultimate futility of the gesture, Jughead is nevertheless a little bit touched. He nods. “Thanks, Archie.”

“I guess you want to put dry clothes on,” he says. “I’ll start up the Xbox.”

No one—not Archie, not Mrs. Cooper, not even Betty—has yet uttered the magic words: _Have you talked to your dad?_ Presumably, they all assume that he has.

He has not. He had, at one point, told his father the internship’s end date, but that was several weeks ago, and it’s almost certain F.P. has since forgotten. Jughead’s been holding off a definite decision on moving into (back into?) the trailer, but as the afternoon begins stretching into evening, he realizes he has very little choice. With the Twilight gone, with Riverdale High still locked up for the summer, and with the rain making camping by Sweetwater River a very undesirable choice, he has nowhere else to go.

Fred pulls out a frozen lasagna and a bag of salad for dinner. It’s still raining when they’ve finished helping clean up the kitchen, so Archie grabs the truck keys and rather proudly announces he’ll drive Jughead home. The stuff in the garage, they decide, can wait to be examined on a day it isn’t raining. 

With every rotation of the truck tires over every bump in the road, Jughead feels more and more as though his insides are solidifying, like whatever nominal progress he might have made towards being a better, happier person over the summer came in liquid form and is now draining away, or maybe melting out of him; it’s finding its way out of the truck and onto the cracked pavement, washing into the ditch on the side of the road, mixing in with the mud. He supposes he should be grateful he ever got any of the squishy stuff in the first place, but that thought is small comfort right now. 

They pull up in front of the trailer. Miracle of miracles, F.P.’s truck is gone and the lights are off. Jughead is in no mood to negotiate a meeting between his father and his best friend. He considers asking Archie in, but—not knowing what he’s going to find inside—grabs his bags with a quick “Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem,” says Archie. “Hey, want to hit up Pop’s for dinner tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“Okay.” Archie pauses for a moment, leans over the steering wheel with his fingers interlocked. “Betty, too?”

Jughead shrugs. “That’s up to Betty, right?”

“Right.” Archie pauses again. “So do you want to ask her, or…”

“Are you trying to make this—” Jughead waves a hand between himself, Archie, and a mystery third point meant to represent Betty— “Are you trying to make this more or less complicated?”

“Less. I think.” He draws a breath, looks up at Jughead with pleading puppy dog eyes. “You do get why this is weird for me, right?”

“Yeah,” Jughead sighs. “I do. But— _you_ get that we’re still separate people who are both your friends, right?”

“Of course,” Archie says, sounding a little annoyed.

“So…” He raises his eyebrows.

Archie nods. “So I’ll talk to Betty.”

“Okay.”

Archie waits until he’s dug out keys and wrenched the trailer door open before driving out of the trailer park. The truck’s headlights flash through the windows, throwing momentary ghastly shadows against the walls. In the dark, in the rain, F.P.’s trailer looks very much as though it, like the Sisters of Quiet Mercy, came out of a horror movie. (They are, he thinks, two very different horror movies. This one’s obviously more _Evil Dead II_.) Thankfully, Jughead manages to find the light switch without too much trouble—not much of an accomplishment, since it’s right inside the door, where light switches inevitably are.

The kitchen and living room don’t look _awful_. By no means do they look great, but there doesn’t seem to be any immediate risk of, say, finding a dead animal under the sofa. The floor is even free of liquor bottles, although he does find a couple of empties in the trash.

He drags his stuff into the small second bedroom, the one that was intended to be his, and flicks the light switch there only to discover that the bulb is burnt out. He finds a new bulb under the kitchen sink, but when he turns the bedroom light on, he discovers that no one ever set up his bed—the frame is there, but in pieces, having never been reassembled after the last move.

“Of course,” Jughead mutters to himself. He pulls the mattress down from where it’s resting against the wall and shoves it into a blank space on the floor. It’ll do.

The whole trailer turns out to be like that when he explores it, a sort of one step forward, two steps back living situation: there are cleaning supplies in the bathroom, but it’s clear no one’s ever put them to use; there’s unspoiled food in the kitchen, but all in the vein of Kraft singles and Wonder Bread. His father’s bedroom somehow looks both messy and totally unused, and smells heavily of cigarette smoke. On the plus side, he doesn’t see any cigarette butts in the bed itself. 

It could be worse, he tells himself. It could definitely be worse.

Then Betty calls, and the sight of her smiling face on his lock screen reminds him that it could also be a hell of a lot better.

“Hi,” she says. “I saw Archie come back. I figured you were home.”

 _This isn’t home_ , he thinks, but all he says is “Yeah, I’m here.”

“How is it?”

“Okay so far. My dad’s gone. I don’t know where he is.”

“How’s Archie?”

“He’s Archie,” he says, and Betty laughs.

Jughead flops down on his mattress, still bare of sheets, and feels a cold emptiness at his side where Betty’s warm weight ought to be, an emptiness that’s only fed by the steady patter of rain on the trailer’s cheap tin roof. They chat for a while, about nothing (it has, after all, been only a few hours since they saw each other) until Betty’s mom knocks on her door.

“Shoot, I have to go. Dessert’s ready.”

“What’s for dessert?”

“Apple pie. It’s my favorite, so of course she hardly ever makes it.”

Of course All-American Betty Cooper’s favorite dessert is apple pie. “You don’t sound happy about her making it now.”

“It’s just—it feels weird. Maybe because I’ve been gone, or maybe because Polly’s gone? I don’t know. It’s like she’s trying to win me over.”

“Or she missed you, and wanted to make your favorite pie to welcome you home.”

Betty snorts. “My mother’s motivations are never that straightforward. Anyway. I’ll—will I see you tomorrow?”

“If you want. It’s not like I have plans.” Other than meeting Archie, of course, but he’s going to hold tight on having Archie be the one to mention those.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll text you. Or you text me. Or—”

“Come knock on my bedroom door?”

“I wish,” she says softly, echoing his own thoughts on the matter.

He hears Alice shout something in the background, and after a quick good-night, Betty hangs up. A few minutes later, she texts him a picture of the pie, along with a promise to save him a piece.

For lack of anything better to do, he puts sheets and a blanket on his mattress, then wanders into the living room and turns on the TV, jostling the box until the local news agrees to come in. The rain has finally let up, which helps the reception a little.

He chooses not to think about whether or not he should unpack, and is still not thinking about unpacking (or not unpacking) an hour later, when his father blows through the door, a little damp but otherwise relatively dapper. Relatively. Jughead jumps to his feet, then has to wait awkwardly as F.P. removes a pair of muddy boots and places them on some old newspaper by the door. 

“So you’re here.”

“I’m here,” he says, a little cautiously. “Where have you been?”

F.P. shrugs. “Around.” He crosses into the living room and leans against a wall, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankle. “Had it in my head you might call for a ride. From the bus station, at least, if not all the way from Brook Glen.”

He’s tempted to ask whether his father would actually have driven all the way to Brook Glen, but decides against it. “Betty’s mom was going down to get her anyway, so.”

(Still, though. F.P. remembered his return date?)

“ _Betty’s_ mom,” F.P. says, grinning. “How is Alice?”

Even though he’s aware his father is, or was, acquainted with Betty’s mother, the question still strikes him as odd. “Fine, I guess? It’s not like I know her very well.”

“Hmm,” says F.P. “Fair enough. And how is Betty?”

“She’s also fine.”

 _This_ question—or rather, the way it’s asked—strikes him as deliberately provocative, and sure enough, his father’s follow-up is “You ever get around to kissing her?”

Jughead does not dignify this with a response, which is apparently enough to tell F.P. everything he needs to know.

“I like her,” he declares, a thin smile appearing under the three days of stubble on his face. “Try not to mess this up, okay?”

“For god’s sake, Dad,” Jughead mutters, as his face flushes hot. His father merely grins.

F.P. pushes away from the wall, saunters into the kitchen, grabs something from the fridge. Jughead winces a little at the all-too-familiar pop and hiss of the top, but when his father saunters back through the room, steady on his feet, he gets the funny feeling that this beer might be today’s first.

“Better come give me a hand with this,” he calls over his shoulder as he disappears down the hallway. “Unless you want to sleep on a mattress on the floor.”

Once tucked into his newly reassembled bed, he texts Betty a quick _Good night_. That his father has discovered the nature of their relationship is information, he thinks, best exchanged in person.

He falls asleep to the sound of wind hitting a cheap tin roof, and wakes up to the bright light of a sunny day in an east-facing room with no curtains and a cacophony of snores coming from behind F.P.’s half-closed bedroom door. Jughead gives the shower a quick scrub before getting in (the thing is grosser than the dorm showers, which seems inconceivable), tries and fails to find something for breakfast, loads his laptop in his messenger bag, and is out the front door in twenty minutes.

Jughead arrives at the Twilight—or more accurately, at what used to be the Twilight—not long after. What used to be the Twilight is now a muddy field sporting a truly terrible sign advertising an impending shopping center with the godawful name of SoDale. _SoDale_. He casts around for where he’s heard a name like that before, and finally realizes it was _South Park_ , a show for which his father has never lost his enthusiasm.

The field is desolate, bleak, barren; it’s a whole thesaurus of synonyms for “empty.” Andrews Construction has done a damn thorough job eliminating any evidence that a drive-in theater ever existed. Only one remaining dumpster, piled high with broken wood, gives any indication that there was ever anything here at all. Someone has made a halfhearted attempt to fence off the area, has hung the requisite “Danger, No Entry” signs every so often. But Jughead knows how to traverse a construction site without getting himself killed; even if he didn’t, it’s not like the signs would keep him out. Slipping through a gap in the fence, he starts walking to where the projection booth used to be.

Muck. It’s all muck. Literal and figurative muck…

…with fresh footprints in it that are not his own.

Jughead’s not an expert on footprints, but he’s fairly sure that, hard as it rained yesterday, these must have been left very recently. He starts following them, though he’s not really sure why, taking the odd mental note as he does so. One set of tracks, it looks like, from someone with a shoe that’s probably a few sizes smaller than his own. The print is from some sort of ordinary kind of boot that might belong to either a man or a woman. He steps back a few paces, trying to gauge the depth of his own footprint in comparison, before realizing he probably can’t tell anything about how heavy this person was, since the mud is undoubtedly drier and firmer now than it was when the footprints were made.

He walks up to his previous spot, takes out his phone, and snaps a couple of pictures of what the tracks look like on their own, before he adds his own second set. He’s about to send them off to Betty, needing only an appropriately witty Nancy Drew reference for a caption, when he hears an approaching set of squelches and looks up to see Nancy Drew herself trudging across the mud in knee-high rain boots, holding—bless her—two coffee cups, one red and one blue. Aluminum vacuum-sealed insulated travel cups. Of course the Coopers would have those.

“Please tell me you didn’t actually go knock on my bedroom door,” he says, just before she gives him a good-morning kiss. 

“No. I figured you’d be here.”

“Although I had a weird talk with my dad last night, and I got the impression he wouldn’t mind if you _did_ show up and knock on my door.” 

“Oh, god,” Betty mutters. “He, uh…” 

“Likes you,” Jughead supplies, deliberately omitting the directive not to mess things up.

“Okay, then.” She takes a deep breath. “Are you finding anything interesting?”

“Maybe. I was just going to send you a picture of these footprints.”

Betty hands him the coffees and bends down to examine the footprints closely, peering and squinting at the mud as though it’s going to reveal all its secrets to her. “The red cup’s yours, by the way.” He opens it, grateful just for the _smell_ of coffee that hits his nose, as Betty stands up and tightens her ponytail. “I guess we’ll follow them where they’re going?”

The footprints lead them to the dumpster, unsurprising considering there’s nothing else in the field. There, they form a small, uneven circle, as though the person who made them was stomping around a bit, before the tracks veer to the right, towards the tree line.

Betty looks up at the edge of the dumpster, takes a sip of her coffee. “Archie said they’re hauling this last one away tomorrow morning. Oh. And he invited me to dinner with you guys tonight, by the way.”

Good. He nods, then asks, “Do you think we can get in?” The sides of the dumpster are about six feet high, low enough that Jughead could probably pull himself up and scramble over, however inelegantly.

“Probably, but why?” Betty asks, and he snaps back to reality. “I mean—who do we think was here, throwing something out? Do we think they were up to something we need to be concerned about?”

“No idea. But there’s only one way to find out.” 

Betty tilts her head. “Jughead, is it possible that this is more about…”

“My morbid attachment to an idealized and now deconstructed playground of my youth?”

“I wouldn’t have put it that way, but yes. There’s probably nothing in there but rotting wood.”

She’s right, he knows. Nevertheless, he hands the red cup back to Betty (along with his messenger bag), flexes his fingers, and prepares to jump for it.

The struggle is indeed inelegant, but he makes it up the side without too much trouble, and sits perched on the dumpster’s lip.

“See anything?”

Jughead shakes his head. “No. You’re right, it’s just…detritus.”

He sits there for a while longer anyway, looking at all the nothing there is to see—mostly gray cinderblocks and gray wood coated in peeling, faded red paint that almost looks gray itself. A few takeout bags from Pop’s, turned gray after a night of rain.

And then he spots something shiny. A set of keys, not quite atop the pile, caught between pieces of rebar.

“Uh, Betty?”

“What?”

“I think there is something here.” He shuffles sideways a few feet, until he’s close enough to reach the keys. 

“Juggie, be careful,” Betty calls from below. “You don’t know if there’s sharp stuff, or splinters, or…”

He pockets the keys, then carefully swings his legs over the edge and drops down into the mud. “Car keys,” he says, digging them out to show Betty. She watches him turn the keys over a few times in his hand. 

“Huh. That’s odd. Who would throw two car keys in a dumpster in the middle of a rainstorm? Unless the keys fell in there by accident.”

“I don’t think so,” Jughead says. “Who keeps _just_ car keys? Wouldn’t they have house keys or something on the ring, too?”

“Not necessarily. Not if they’d just taken the car to a mechanic or something.”

“They didn’t look like they fell. They looked like they were thrown.” Not that he’s an expert on construction, but—having grown up around it, more or less—he does know a little. And one of the things he knows is that construction workers do not generally keep their keys anywhere that said keys could easily fall into a dumpster during demolition work.

“So we have keys,” Betty says. She hands him back his messenger bag, and he puts the keys inside before taking the coffee from her, too.

“We have keys,” Jughead agrees. “Let’s keep following the tracks. It looks like they go into the woods. Maybe we’ll find the car.”

But they don’t find a car. They find only tire tracks, coming from and going to the main road.

“Well, that’s a wash, I guess.” Betty’s mouth is set in frustration, but turns to a little smile when she looks back at him. “Speaking of washes, you need one.”

Jughead looks down at his t-shirt, which is covered in dirt from his ascent up the dumpster. Damn it, she’s right. He hadn’t exactly intended on going back to the trailer until after dinner. There’s a flannel shirt in his messenger bag, though, packed out of habit. The ground is fairly dry here, under the trees, so he just puts the bag and coffee down before taking off his hat and stripping off the t-shirt. As his head emerges from the hem, he catches Betty simultaneously looking, trying not to look, and blushing.

It occurs to him, suddenly, to feel weird about taking his shirt off in front of her, even if he’s wearing an undershirt, and even if—as he reminds himself for what seems like the thousandth time—they’ve gone swimming together plenty of times in the past. But not—they haven’t been swimming _recently_. Not since it started mattering. 

He reaches towards his bag, for the flannel shirt, but is distracted by Betty’s bag landing next to it with a soft _thump_ , and then Betty herself, inches from him, her breath rapid and shallow as she raises her hands to his shoulders and lets her eyes drift over him. 

Jughead has been aware, in an abstract and detached sort of way, that a summer including three meals a day and much more heavy lifting than one would anticipate from a publishing internship (there were _so_ many boxes of books to move) has left him decidedly less scrawny than he used to be. He’s also been aware, in a very conscious sort of way, that Betty enjoys being pressed against him in one way or another. He’s just not sure he’s ever noticed her looking before. And, even after the summer they’ve had, it still feels entirely unreal that Betty Cooper might study him intently and like what she sees.

“My eyes are up here,” he jokes. It’s an entirely unfair thing to say right now, since he is most definitely looking at Betty’s breasts. But she smiles anyway, shy and sweet, and that’s all it takes to make him need to kiss her, right away. 

They make out for a few minutes, almost lazily, as though they still have all the time in the world. He’s got his left hand behind Betty’s ear and his right on her waist, gripping lightly. It works until she pushes her whole body against his, at which point he almost falls backwards. After a few staggered steps, he collides with a tree trunk. The tree turns out to be pretty good support, so Jughead lets his right hand start drifting slightly higher.

Betty pulls her lips from his, nods, breathes the word “Yes.”

It’s not as though he has never, in all of their time together, touched Betty’s breasts; he has. This still feels different, more significant, somehow. Maybe it’s because they’re home, in Riverdale, and the whole _thing_ between them is still happening. Maybe it’s because the tree provides slightly different angles than the dorm bed, and one of Betty’s legs is now slotted between his, providing an interesting sort of friction. Whatever the reason, he keeps going—not with his hands, per se, but with the instincts he usually tries to keep turned off.

When Betty breaks for another breath, he drops his lips to her neck, just under her ear.

This turns out to be a step too far.

“Oh, god,” she moans, but then she’s pushing away from him. Just slightly. “Juggie…”

“Sorry,” he mutters at once. Betty kisses him again, quickly, before his heart can sink.

“Don’t be sorry,” she says. “I just—I’m going back-to-school shopping with my mom today. You _cannot_ give me a hickey.”

“Right. Sorry. I…” He swallows, and finally reaches for the flannel shirt in his bag.

“Hey,” Betty says as he’s tugging it on, and he looks up to see her…almost shy and embarrassed again. “Don’t. That was—that was good encouragement.”

“‘Good encouragement?’” he echoes.

She lifts one shoulder in a sort of halfhearted shrug. “I hate shopping with my mom. She…”

He can guess what’s coming next, doesn’t particularly want to hear it, and hastily kisses her before she can get the words out.

“Your mom’s _crazy_ ,” he tells her. He wonders if they’re both remembering six weeks or so earlier, when she’d spat the words _I’m not desirable_ and threatened to never speak to him again if he said otherwise. The circumstances would seem to have changed just a bit since then.

“Yeah, I know,” she sighs. “Intellectually, I know that.”

Intellectually, Jughead knows saying _Betty, you’re gorgeous_ ought to be a simple task. But he plays the words in his head, and realizes she’s right; it would be easy for them to ring false, or hollow. _You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen._ Who, exactly, says that?

“You want me to recite poetry or something?” (Ugh, he thinks at once; who says _that_?) “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

The tiniest of grins appears on Betty’s face. “Uncomfortably warm and humid?”

“It was cooler in Elizabethan England. Also, I’m pretty sure the next line is ‘thou art more lovely and more temperate,’ so your point is invalid.”

“That’s true. I think it is.”

“Anyway…”

Betty looks up, right into his eyes, just as a little shaft of sunlight peeks perfectly through the trees, throwing a golden glow around her. Even with her hair in a ponytail, her face makeup-free, and her feet in muddy rain boots, she’s so pretty it hurts.

“Look, I don’t know what the hell is wrong with your mother,” he says, as Betty’s eyebrows slowly raise, “but trust me, there is _nothing_ to improve on.”

Her tiny smile broadens. “Why, Jughead Jones.” She steps right up to him, stands on her tiptoes, and plants a kiss on his cheek. “You’re not so bad yourself. Oh, speaking of my mother…”

“Speaking of your mother, maybe we should stop speaking of your mother?”

Betty’s bending down now, rooting around in her backpack for something. A Tupperware container, which she pulls out and hands to him.

“Speaking of my mother, I stole some of her pie for you.”

He peels back the corner of the lid and takes a sniff. It smells amazing.

“It’s amazing we’ve gotten this far without anyone making a joke about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach, isn’t it?” Betty says, the hint of a laugh in her voice. “Hey, I should get going. I don’t think I want to go to the Greendale mall in muddy jeans and rain boots.”

Jughead puts the pie in his own bag, and they walk through the woods together, splitting up only when they hit the main road. Betty’s house is in one direction, and Pop’s—his only real option for the rest of the day, since the public library is closed on Sundays—is in the other.

“See you at Pop’s tonight?” he asks, and Betty nods. 

“A proper catching-up with Archie Andrews,” she says. “I guess you had one yesterday. But still.”

“He swears he doesn’t want things to be weird.”

“Good,” she says. “That’s good. Still…let’s make sure we don’t tell him anything about going to find Polly, okay?” 

He nods once. Just once. Betty smiles in return. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So admittedly, this turned into more of a filler chapter. But! We're almost up to the true start of season 1 events! Excitement approaches. 
> 
> If you're still reading, thank you ❤️. As always, your local fanfic author survives on a diet of Earl Gray tea and comments :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now, back to the plot. 
> 
> Featuring: VERONICA LODGE, BITCHES. And some other stuff. Nuns, tacos, that kind of thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I have failed to warn Diaphenia about foods she finds upsetting. Nevertheless, she deserves capes (poetry or chocolate shoppe variety).

The moment Betty lays eyes on the pink dress, she knows it’s the one—inasmuch as a back-to-school dance can possibly require, or even engender a concept of, “the one.”

In any case, she’s drawn to the dress from all the way across the department, and quickly crosses over to examine it more closely. She and her mother have been shopping for hours. On the whole, the experience has been less painful than usual. But it’s also been very strange, and she’s more than ready for it to be over. Her mother seems to be more than ready for it to be over, too; she’s gone to find coffee, leaving Betty with the credit card and a price limit.

They’ve never been back-to-school shopping without Polly.

Polly’s absence seems to have made Alice more charitable than usual, since there is no one to whom Betty can be unfavorably compared. Still, nice as it is to spend an afternoon without hearing the words “not flattering on you,” Betty would rather have her sister there than not.

(Is Polly even going to school, she wonders? Is she dropping out? What on earth is this doing to her GPA, her SAT prep, her college plans?)

When Betty arrives at the rack of pink dresses, she finds she likes the design even better up close, save for one detail: small cutouts at the waist.

But she still likes it a lot, so she picks up a couple of different sizes, and heads to the changing room with no other dresses in hand. Truth be told, the idea of exposing skin at that particular location makes her a little bit nervous. But the dress is conservative otherwise—high neckline, knee-length flared skirt, and meant to be figure-skimming rather than figure-hugging. And when it comes right down to it, lately she’s been doing _much_ scarier things than drawing emphasis to her waist.

(Tomorrow. Tomorrow she’s going to do something completely terrifying.)

“You let me know if you need another size,” says the older lady who’s counting garments at the front of the dressing room, as she hands Betty a little plastic tag emblazoned with the number two.

Getting the zipper all the way up takes some advanced contortion, but she manages in the end. The dress looks nice enough from the front. The pink is one of the pinks that looks best on her, and the fit is almost perfect. Still, she takes a calming breath before she steps into the dressing room hallway to examine herself in the multi-angle mirror.

“Oh, honey,” says the sales clerk, peering over from behind her counter. “That’s very pretty.”

Betty gives the dress a little twirl. She intends to send a smile at the girl in the mirror, but realizes she doesn’t have to; the girl in the mirror already looks happy. Which is weird, in a way. The dress _is_ pretty, sure. But even with the waist cutouts, it’s not the slightest bit sexy. Nor is it even the slightest bit unexpected. If you turned a hundred Betty Coopers loose in a dress store, ninety-nine of them would come back with this exact garment. 

But maybe there’s a reason for that. Maybe it’s not because ninety-nine Betty Coopers are apt to play things safe whenever possible. Maybe ninety-nine Betty Coopers know what they’re doing.

It’s only when she’s in the shoe department, signing the credit card receipt for a pair of soft silver pumps, that she realizes she hasn’t once wondered what her boyfriend will think of her dress, or whether he might prefer if she dressed a little sexier. She thinks about the idea of a sexy dress for just a little while before deciding that he wouldn’t—unless for some reason she wanted to dress that way, in which case he would. He likes _her_ , just as she is. And she likes this dress.

“All set for the dance,” she says cheerfully, as Alice Cooper and her coffee approach the bench Betty’s waiting on, laden with all the day’s bags. “Dress and shoes.”

“The heels aren’t too high, I hope,” says her mother.

“Of course not, Mom. I want to be able to walk in them all night.”

“But high enough to slim out your calves?” Alice’s tone is so mild Betty suspects that for once, she doesn’t particularly care, and so she does not deign to respond.

They’re about halfway home when Alice breaks the silence of their ride. “I suppose you’ll be needing a ride to the dance?”

“Um... maybe?” Transportation logistics are not something she and Jughead have discussed, but the fact of the matter is, neither of them have their licenses yet. “Or I can just walk.”

“Alone? At night?”

“It’ll still be light when I leave.” Then she decides there’s no time like the present. “Besides, I’m not going alone.” 

The entire driver’s side of the car seems to sigh. “Betty, I hoped you weren’t going to fall back into old habits.”

“Old habits?” Betty echoes. She can feel her eyebrows twisting in confusion.

“Pining after that boy.”

Betty almost chokes on nothing. “Archie? No. Mom.” She shakes her head. “I mean, I might walk over there with Archie, but only because he’s my friend and he lives next door.”

Her mother does not look convinced.

“I’m going with Jughead.”

Alice turns her head just slightly, barely taking her eyes from the road. “Oh?”

* * * * *

Betty looks a little tired when she slips into their booth at Pop’s, but she beams at Jughead and then Archie in turn before reaching under the table to briefly squeeze Jughead’s hand. As soon as she lets go, his hand finds her leg and stays there.

“You okay?”

“Great,” Betty says. For the first time in what’s probably years, she grabs a menu and flips it open. “So, what’s good here?”

“You sure you’re okay?” Jughead asks, trying to sound equally parts concerned and facetious.

In response, Betty nudges him with her elbow, which causes him to smirk at her; things would probably keep going from there, were it not for a quiet “Uh, guys?” from the other side of the table.

Jughead can’t really say he feels guilty about their small public display of affection—if Betty’s into it, then he is too—especially not after all the times the two of them have had to watch Archie’s brazen flirtations. Betty certainly doesn’t look like she feels guilty about it either; though she’s looking at the menu right now, she’s also arching an eyebrow across the table in a way that clearly states _deal with it_. Nevertheless, they cease and desist.

Mostly.

His fingers are still bouncing lightly on top of Betty’s thigh twenty minutes later, as he’s trying to describe the worst submission he pulled out of the slush pile this summer, with Betty—to whom he’d shown a few choice highlights from the piece—filling in the occasional detail.

Then the bell on the diner door tinkles. It’s done so a dozen times or more already this evening, but at this instance, Archie’s face goes completely dumbstruck.

“…there’s no way to describe the introduction of the love interest without resorting to the most derisive application of the phrase ‘male gaze’ imaginable,” Jughead’s saying, when he realizes his words haven’t so much gone in one of Archie’s ears and out the other as they have failed to even penetrate one eardrum. “Uh, Arch?”

Archie does not react—so Jughead and Betty, who are sitting with their backs to the door, simultaneously swivel in their seats.

Striding into the diner— _slinking_ into the diner?—entirely as though she owns the place is a dark-haired girl whom Jughead suspects is about their age, or maybe a little older.

“Speaking of the male gaze,” Jughead says, sotto voce.

Betty looks as though she intends to laugh at this, but doesn’t, and Jughead realizes she’s nearly as transfixed by this girl as Archie is.

“I called in a takeout order for Lodge?” says the girl, placing what looks to Jughead like a designer purse on the counter.

Pop Tate nods. “It’ll be just a couple of minutes.”

The dark-haired girl smiles, and turns to scan the patrons. Betty turns back to her plate, clearly not wanting to be caught staring, but Archie doesn’t seem to have any such compunction. Jughead gets the distinct impression that if the girl wasn’t walking over to them, Archie would be at the counter with her in approximately three seconds.

 _Lodge_ , he thinks. With as much digging into Riverdale’s history as he’s been doing lately, it’s impossible for the name not to ring a bell, and he wonders if there’s a connection. This girl certainly looks like she could be a member of the area’s most successful real estate magnate family.

There is, however, a more pressing issue at hand. _Betty doesn’t care if Archie makes eyes at another girl_ , he tells himself. _Betty likes you._.

(But even if Betty truly is over her feelings for Archie, might watching this display not still be painful for her?)

The stupid, crushing sense of doubt rolls around like a boulder in the pit of Jughead’s stomach—but only for a moment, until Betty looks at him with a twinkle in her eye and her lower lip sucked between her teeth, and he realizes she’s trying desperately not to laugh.

She leans close to him, puts her mouth right to his ear. “You would think he’s never seen a pretty girl before,” she whispers, and Jughead finds he’s unable to keep himself from letting out a little snort.

“Good evening,” says the girl, who’s arrived at their table with a surprisingly knowing smile for someone who doesn’t know them at all. Jughead blinks, then takes the new girl in. On first impression, she’d seemed average height to tall; now he realizes she’s actually petite, but wearing a pair of what look to Jughead like impressively high heels. Her hair, skin, and makeup are all the very definition of flawless. She’s wearing a cocktail dress. She’s wearing a string of pearls that he strongly suspects are real. She’s wearing a _cape_.

To Pop’s.

He lets out another tiny, derisive snort.

The girl’s eyes flicker to him, but clearly she is not the sort of person who would ever give someone like Jughead the time of day, so she does not appear to be the tiniest bit bothered.

“Veronica Lodge,” she says, extending a hand towards Archie. “I’m new to this charming establishment. As I am, indeed, to Riverdale as a whole.”

“Oh, my god, Archie,” Betty giggles, when he fails to take the girl’s hand or even do anything other than blink at her. She shakes Veronica’s hand instead. “Hi. I’m Betty Cooper.”

“Charmed,” says Veronica, the cat-like smile never leaving her face.

“This is my friend Archie,” Betty continues, at which point Archie manages to snap back to reality. “Archie Andrews.”

Archie swallows. “Hi.”

“And this is my boyfriend, Jughead Jones.”

Veronica’s eyebrows were already impressively arched, but she manages to make one go up a little higher as she reaches for Jughead’s hand. This all strikes him as unnecessary, but he shakes anyway.

“The third,” he adds.

“Do you want to sit?” Archie asks rather abruptly, scrambling from the center of his bench to the side.

Veronica shakes her head. “Thanks, but my mother’s expecting me. She’s been going on and on about the burgers here. And the milkshakes.”

“Not the onion rings?” Betty asks.

“Are they good?” At Betty’s nod, she says, “You know, I could go for some onion rings. Pardon me a moment.” She strides back towards the register.

Betty takes advantage of the girl’s temporary absence to wave her hand in Archie’s face. “Hey,” she says, her tone one of kindly concern rather than outright amusement; Jughead has no idea how she’s able to be so—so _nice_. “Archie. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, though his eyes haven’t left Veronica.

“This is ridiculous even for you,” Jughead points out, which at least earns him a glare. He shrugs and, having finished his own milkshake, reaches for Betty’s.

“Well, it’s no Le Cirque,” Veronica says rather drolly, arriving back at their table accompanied by the clickety-clack of high heels on worn linoleum. “But it does smell heavenly in here. I take it this is the local hangout spot?” Veronica surveys the diner again, eyebrow still raised. “Quaint, but cute.”

“Pop’s is the best,” Betty says.

“I was starting to get worried about the social scene. Our drive into town this morning was _not_ promising. Are you familiar with the works of Truman Capote?” She doesn’t wait to see if any of them are before continuing. “I’m _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_ , but this place is strictly _In Cold Blood_.”

Archie lets out a short guffaw, and then Betty turns to Jughead with an expression so completely bewildered that he very nearly snorts vanilla milkshake through his nose.

“I’m sorry, am I a figure of amusement to you?” Veronica asks, sounding rather amused herself.

Jughead, against all the logic of first impressions, decides there’s a possibility he might actually be able to like her.

“Miss Lodge?” calls Pop Tate. “Your onion rings are ready.”

“I apologize for both of them,” says Betty, snapping back to normal. “Look, Veronica. It’s great to meet you. And we’ll see you around, definitely. I’m going to be your peer mentor at Riverside High.”

Veronica graces them all with a final serene smile. “Excellent,” she says. “In which case, I won’t ask for your number; it’s already in my email. Ta-ta.” She gives a little twitch of the shoulders as she leaves them, causing the cape to flare somewhat dramatically. More dramatically than a cape has any right to flare in Pop’s Chok’lit Shoppe, anyway.

“Cheerio,” Jughead says, unable to help himself. This earns him a swat on the upper arm from Betty; he sends her a mock glare. “Look, you’re lucky I didn’t start singing _Moon River_.”

Archie blinks several times in rapid succession. “What?”

Jughead looks at Betty, Betty looks back at him, and they both dissolve into laughter.

From across the table, Archie scowls at both of them. “ _What_?”

The three of them walk back to Archie and Betty’s houses, Betty’s arm looped casually through his. When they arrive in front of the Andrews house, Archie nods at Fred’s truck. “Want a ride home, Jug?”

“Sure, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

They watch him run inside to get keys, Betty’s expression fond. “I hope Veronica’s impressed that he can drive already, when she finds out,” she says, sounding amused.

“Hey.” Jughead nudges her. “I do know how.”

“Yeah, so do I.” She turns to him, eyebrow raised. “Can you drive stick, though?”

“Of course. That’s all we’ve ever had.”

Betty nods. “Same here.”

“So Veronica might at least be impressed with the three of us, even if Riverdale itself doesn’t live up to her standards.” 

“Maybe I should loan Archie my copy of _In Cold Blood_. Think it’d help?”

“Maybe,” he says, as he watches Betty’s expression change from fond to thoughtful. “What?”

“Nothing. Just…” Betty shakes her head a couple of times, like she’s trying to rid herself of cobwebs, and he wonders whether she’s thinking of Archie and Veronica together. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

“Are _you_?” he counters.

“I think so.” She draws in a shaky breath. “Meet you at the bus station?”

He nods. Betty glances over her shoulder at her house, satisfies herself that her mother isn’t watching from a window and stretches up to give him a kiss.

“Haven’t told her yet?”

“Actually, I did. Well—I told her we were going to the dance together, anyway. I might have left out some of the prelude to you asking me. Just for now.” She takes a breath in and out. “She thinks your intentions are honorable.”

“Who says they’re not?” Jughead demands, although suddenly all he can think of is trying to kiss the side of Betty’s neck again, as he'd done in the woods that morning. He goes for her lips instead, managing to linger there just a little too long—which is to say, he’s still kissing her when the Andrews’ door bangs shut and Archie clatters down the front stairs.

“Oh, come on, you guys,” Archie groans, but Jughead can tell he’s teasing them.

“Night, Archie,” Betty says lightly. She gives Jughead’s arm one last squeeze, and then heads to her own house.

* * * * *

“And what will you be doing with yourself today, Betty?”

Betty smiles first at her father, then at her mother, and then back at her father, who’s peering over the top of his coffee mug, waiting for an answer to his question. Her palms tingle, but she keeps one hand on her cereal spoon and the other flat on the table.

“Well,” she says, “I thought I might go for a walk this morning, before it starts raining. Then I’m not really sure. Kevin was talking about going to a movie at the multiplex in Greendale.” This is not, technically, a lie. Kevin _was_ talking about going to a movie at the multiplex in Greendale, entirely in the context of Betty calling and asking him to be prepared with a potential alibi.

“Hmm,” Hal responds. “Well, don’t rot your brains.”

“I won’t, Dad.”

She chokes down as much breakfast as she can manage with a stomach already full of anxiety, then heads upstairs and dresses in an outfit she hopes straddles the line between “practical sleuthing clothes for a possible mid-morning thunderstorm” and “something nuns would like.” She applies mascara and lip gloss, trying to make herself look as wide-eyed and innocent as possible, pulls her hair into its usual high ponytail, and gives herself a critical look in the mirror.

As usual, she looks exactly like herself.

She fastens the key necklace Polly gave her for her birthday around her neck, tucks it into her shirt, and heads out, stopping to pull her lightest raincoat from the hall closet on the way.

“Don’t be late for dinner,” calls her father.

“I won’t!” she responds, only to hear her mother speak a moment later, as she’s grabbing an umbrella.

“Nonsense, Hal. She hasn’t seen Kevin all summer.”

“She missed family dinner last night, Alice. And how much time do we really want her spending around—”

Betty decides the best course of action is to proceed as though she hadn’t heard a word. “Okay. Bye, Mom and Dad! Love you!”

And with that, Betty is off to find her sister.

She makes it to the bus stop twenty minutes before she’s supposed to meet Jughead there, timing she’s screwed up on purpose so that she can buy his ticket without him putting up a fuss about it. With her parents stationed in the kitchen, she hadn’t been able to pack lunches, but she grabs a couple bottles of water from the vending machine. Then, having run out of details to nitpick, she sits and waits.

Betty has never been very good at sitting and waiting when there’s something she really wants for herself, and at this particular moment, she’s incapable of even trying. When Jughead shows up right on time, he finds her pacing in front of the terminal, clammy with flop sweat. He doesn’t say anything, just takes in her expression and then arranges himself on one of the outside benches, sitting sideways and swinging a leg up so that she could, if she wanted to, sit more or less in his lap.

But she’s going to have to sit still for an hour on the bus, and that’s as much sitting as she thinks she’s going to be able to handle today.

The bus arrives on time, and they climb aboard, choosing seats near the back. Betty’s nerves, already firing on full throttle, only seem to get worse with every passing mile. Jughead takes her right hand in both of his, and rubs slow, hypnotic circles with his thumb until her skin almost goes numb. She presses her left hand flat under her thigh, hoping the rough upholstery fabric will provide the same kind of unfortunate relief as her fingernails. 

It does not.

The bus drives on.

Rain starts to fall, because of course it does; the drops are gentle at first, but within ten minutes the heavens have opened all the way up.

“Good thing the bus stop is right across the street,” Jughead says. Betty nods.

(What is she going to say to her sister? Is Polly going to be happy to see her? Angry? Somewhere in between? What have their parents told her? What if she’s not okay?)

“You all right?”

Betty glances up at her boyfriend, whose expression is somewhere between concerned and guilty, like he knows she didn’t want him to ask the question but couldn’t help himself any longer.

She nods again. “Just nervous. What if… Juggie, there are so many what ifs.”

“You can’t focus on those now,” he says. She knows he’s right, but still. Her stomach churns right up until they step off the bus.

Despite the rainstorm, they spend a good two minutes stuck in place, simply taking in the Sisters of Quiet Mercy. The building—or compound, really—positively _looms_ above them. Standing in its shadow, or more accurately, where its shadow would be if the sun were out, Betty can’t help but feel pale, cold, and small. She also can’t help but feel that the sun has never, ever shone on the Sisters of Quiet Mercy. Jughead looks about like she feels: wet, uncomfortable, and about eleven years old.

“This is nightmare fuel,” she mutters.

“Now, now,” he responds, a false levity in his voice. “Don’t judge a nightmare Gothic convent by its freakish façade.”

She means to glare at him, but she suddenly finds herself so grateful not to be alone that she just can’t. Instead she takes his hand and swallows hard.

Together, they ascend the front stairs, entering into an equally dismal reception area: buzzing, flickering fluorescent lights, water-stained ceiling tiles, faded plastic chairs that look like they haven’t been replaced since the early 1970s.

“I’m here to visit Polly Cooper,” Betty announces to the nun behind the front desk, who gives her a funny look.

“Sign here,” says the nurse. “And I’ll need a form of photo ID.”

Betty signs where indicated, hands over her learner’s permit, and takes a seat next to Jughead, who’s wringing his sopping beanie into a mostly-dead potted plant.

“Miss Cooper?” calls the nun. Betty stands up at once; the nun waves her down, but she approaches the counter anyway. “I’m afraid Miss Cooper—the other Miss Cooper, that is—I’m afraid she’s able to receive immediate family members only.”

“I’m her sister,” she says. “I am immediate family.”

“You are not on her list of authorized guests.”

And with that, all the butterflies in Betty’s stomach are replaced by hornets. Angry, vengeful hornets.

“Look, _Sister_ ,” she hisses, deliberately emphasizing the nun’s title, and well aware that she sounds a lot like her mother right now. _Their_ mother. “I’ve been away for the entire summer. I’m sure our parents didn’t bother to put me on a stupid guest list. You know how I can be sure of that? Because they wouldn’t even tell me where she was. I have spent two months trying to find Polly. And now that I know she’s here, I’m not leaving until you let me see her. I’m not.” 

Betty thinks she sees sympathy flicker briefly in the nun’s eyes, but as soon as the older woman blinks, it’s gone.

“Are you able to provide proof of your relationship?” the nun asks, without a trace more civility than the situation requires.

For a moment, she’s completely thrown. What kind of paperwork exists to prove a sibling relationship? Birth certificates? She certainly doesn’t carry copies of those around. The address on her learner’s permit ought to be the same as the address on Polly’s paperwork, but…

“Yeah,” she says, the obvious answer suddenly popping into her mind. “Polly.”

The nun raises her eyebrows.

“Ask Polly,” Betty insists. “Call her room, or wherever she is, and ask if she has a sister named Elizabeth.”

The older woman’s lips purse and she tilts her head, this new angle revealing a line of fine mustache hairs that Betty tries desperately not to notice, because that just seems like one cliché too many. But she’s reaching for the phone—and that’s the important thing.

Until the nun clears her throat into the receiver, then starts speaking.

“Mrs. Cooper? This is Sister Rita at the Sisters of Quiet Mercy. I have an Elizabeth Cooper here claiming to be Polly’s sister?”

For what might be the first time in her life, Betty Cooper thinks: _Oh, **fuck**_.

Sister Rita hands her the receiver, and Betty accepts it with a shaking hand. The cord is short, and she has to lean over the counter slightly to make the receiver reach her ear. 

“I don’t even want to know how you found your sister,” says Alice’s voice, so clipped it’s not even angry. “I don’t, Elizabeth.”

“Mom, I—”

“Don’t speak.” Betty hears a sharp, entirely nasal exhalation. “You know what, Betty? Fine. You’re there; you might as well see what your sister has become.”

“What she’s _become_?” Betty interjects, ignoring the directive not to speak. “Mom, she’s not some sort of monster.”

“Put Sister Rita back on the phone,” Alice orders. “You can see Polly. Do _not_ upset her. And then stay right where you are.”

“Mom—”

“Put Sister Rita back on the phone, Betty.”

Betty does. While the nun takes orders from her mother, Betty turns to look at Jughead, and finds him completely stricken, still wringing his wet beanie in his hands, an expression of near-panic on his face. Again, she thinks, he looks how she feels.

Sister Rita hangs up the phone. The flicker of sympathy is back in her eye.

“Come,” she says, simply, taking a step towards a nearby door.

Betty casts a final look back at Jughead, who nods. Then she stands up as straight as possible, pulls her shoulders back, and prepares to follow Sister Rita to what very well might be her own imprisonment. On the other side of the door, she’s handed off to a second nun, who walks her up a flight of stairs, where she’s handed off again. The halls are mostly empty, but everyone they do see is either a sister or an orderly in scrubs, all of which contributes to the feeling that Betty boarded a bus in Riverdale and got off it in a _Black Mirror_ episode. By the time they arrive at a gray, narrow door set into a dimly lit corridor on the third floor, she can feel the indentations in her palms.

“At this time, Polly usually prefers quiet reflection in the garden,” says whichever nun is currently escorting her. “However, in her condition, it’s better for her to avoid the rain.”

“In her condition?” Betty queries. Instead of answering her, the sister taps twice on the door before opening it.

The light inside the room is brighter than the light in the hallway, just enough so that Betty’s eyes take a moment to adjust. She can make out a figure in repose on the bed, facing away from the door…

“Polly?”

The figure flies upright; when it turns around, her sister’s face comes perfectly into focus.

“Oh, my god. Betty?” Polly’s on her feet now, rushing to the door, ignoring Betty’s escort. “You're finally here."

“Fifteen minutes,” says the nun. “Polly, remember you’re not to get too excited.”

These words barely register with Betty. She’s hugging her sister, hugging her for the first time in months.

“Can you feel it, Betty?” Polly whispers in her ear. “Can you?”

They take a step away from each other, and as Polly pulls her into the bedroom, Betty registers that her sister _did_ feel different. Polly has long had the enviably flat stomach that befits her status as a River Vixen, but now…

“Polly,” Betty breathes. She feels her heart speed up as _so many things_ start clicking into place. In addition to the slightly rounded belly she felt under what she had taken for a nightgown, but now sees is a terrible cotton shift dress, Polly’s face is fuller, her breasts larger. “You’re… you’re pregnant?”

Polly positively _beams_ , and for some reason Betty’s immediate reaction is _Oh, no_.

“Sit,” says Polly, gesturing towards the lumpy mattress sitting atop an old iron bedframe; Betty plops down, and Polly sits next to her. “How have you been? How was your internship? Why didn’t you write to me all summer? I know you were busy, but I missed hearing from you.”

“Pol, Mom and Dad didn’t tell me where you were.”

A cloud crosses Polly’s face. “Until you got back?”

“No, like… at all. I had to do a lot of detective work to find you. I’ve been trying all summer, Polly, I swear. I even snuck back to Riverdale one weekend…” She can feel herself almost starting to tear up, and takes a deep breath. “But—no. I want to hear about you.”

Polly shakes her head. “Of course they didn’t tell you. They don’t want me to have this baby.”

“Polly, I’m sure they—”

“They wanted me to get rid of it,” Polly says, and Betty loses her ability to speak. “That was Dad’s first reaction—an ‘appointment at the clinic.’” Polly makes the appropriate air quotes, her eyes bulging wide. “But I wouldn’t do it. Now they expect me to give the baby up for adoption, which is why I’m here. But I’m not going to do that either. Did Jason get in touch with you? Does he know where I am? I’ve been going a little crazy here, waiting for him. There was no way it was supposed to take this long.”

At this, Betty’s blood—already cold—turns to ice. “Polly, Jason… Jason, he… no one told you?”

“That he’s dead?” Polly shakes her head. “Is that what Mom and Dad told _you_?”

“Yeah. Well, no. That’s what everyone, what Sheriff Keller—”

“Jason isn’t dead,” Polly says, with the air of someone announcing she’s going to take out the trash.

“No, he is. He—”

“Betty.” Polly lays a hand on Betty’s knee, the way she always does when she’s trying to be comforting. “Let me ask you something. Has anyone found Jason’s body?”

She can’t think of a response.

“They haven’t, right?” Polly smiles. Despite her obvious happiness at the news, it’s a weird smile. A weird, unsettling smile. Betty shakes her head, willing herself to believe that she’s simply not used to seeing Polly’s face this round, as her sister continues. “It was all part of the plan, Betty.”

“The plan?”

Polly nods. “You weren’t supposed to know. No one was. But if Jason hasn’t…” Briefly, worry clouds Polly’s brow. “Well, you know I’m pregnant, so I might as well tell you the rest.” 

The third nun returns for Betty precisely thirteen minutes later, and Betty hugs her sister goodbye, gripping her so tightly she’s almost afraid she’s hurting the baby. 

“Mom and Dad might not let me come back any time soon,” she says. “But I’ll try. I’ll figure out a way to come see you, okay?”

Polly returns the hug with equal fervor. “I know you will,” she whispers. “I know you will, Betty.”

Back in the waiting room, she finds Jughead sprawled untidily across more than one seat, wet hat back on his head, fidgeting with a tiny rip in the knee of his jeans. When he sees her, he springs to his feet.

“How is she?” he asks, as Betty walks straight into his arms and buries her face in his still-damp jacket.

“She’s crazy.” Betty takes one deep breath, then another. It does not help. “Jughead, I think my sister might actually be crazy.”

“Start at the beginning, Betts.”

Betty lets out a hollow laugh. “The beginning? Well, for a start, she’s almost five months pregnant. That’s why my parents sent her here. But, Juggie, she…”

He guides them into uncomfortable chairs, wraps an arm around her shoulder, and listens. Listens to everything Polly told her, though hopefully Betty’s retelling is a bit more coherent; she’s already itching to get home and get her hands on her diary so she can write it all down, in the hopes organizing Polly’s scattered statements on paper will help her make more sense of Polly and Jason’s insane getaway plan. Jughead turns pale when she mentions the abortion, and paler still when she gets to the part about Jason’s plan to procure a car from some unspecified local lowlifes, but he doesn’t interrupt.

When she’s finished, he sits back in his chair and runs a hand through his hair.

“So Polly got pregnant, told Jason, and the two of them decided the logical thing to do about that was fake Jason’s death and run away, using a probably illegally acquired car hidden behind a billboard on the side of the road, to raise the baby on a farm?”

Betty nods.

“And then your parents ruined this whole plan by putting Polly here right before Jason faked his death?”

“Something like that, yeah.” She shakes her head, hoping beyond hope that this will make some puzzle pieces fall into place, but instead everything just becomes more jumbled.

“Did Polly say where Jason was getting the money for this mysterious getaway car?”

She shakes her head again, but this time it means _no_. “And now Polly wants me to figure out why Jason hasn’t shown up to get her. I just—I want to believe her, I do. I don’t want Jason to be dead, and I don’t want her to be here. But… that plan is crazy, right? That plan is actually crazy, not to mention dangerous. Like, what were they going to do for money? How were they going to pay for the doctor, when she had the baby? Was Polly going to spend the rest of her life not talking to us? Were they going to finish high school?”

Jughead lets out a slow breath, and pulls her a little closer. “If Jason isn’t dead, then where is he?”

It’s an endless slew of unanswerable questions. At the precise moment that she fully realizes as much, two things happen that throw into stark relief how finding Polly has just made her life more complicated, not less. The first is that she tells Jughead, without even thinking about it, “We’re going to have to talk to Cheryl again.”

The second is that Alice Cooper walks through the door.

“Jughead,” Alice says, ignoring Betty completely. “I see you’ve become involved in our family’s private business.”

“He’s my _boyfriend_ , Mom,” Betty spits, shooting Jughead a look that she hopes says _don’t try to help_. “He’s here for me, okay?”

“That’s not what you told me yesterday, Betty. But we’ll discuss your situation later. Stay there, please.” Alice walks up to the front desk.

“Where are you going?”

Her mother does not turn around. “As long as I’ve been dragged here, I’m going to visit my daughter.”

* * * * * 

As he returns to Riverdale in the back seat of Alice Cooper’s car for the second time in three days, Jughead wishes there was something he could _do_. The ride is made worse, this time, by today’s conversation. Instead of listening to Alice and Betty talk about back-to-school dance dresses (a topic in which he is in fact interested), he’s listening to them argue.

About him. They’re arguing about other things, too, and Polly most of all. But he is definitely included in this shouting match. As a subject. Betty shoots the occasional apologetic look in his direction, but Alice has decided that the obvious solution to Jughead’s invasion of the Cooper coven is to act as though he isn’t there.

“I don’t know what you expected, Mom! I watched you spend a whole year being awful to Jason. You made Polly break up with him, remember? You forced them to sneak around behind your back because you couldn’t accept that they loved each other! So why do you think I would be so eager to tell you that I was—”

“Because I expect you to have more common sense than your sister.”

“I’m _not Polly!_ ”

“You’re acting very much like her right now,” Alice retorts. “Lying about your relationship with Jughead, sneaking around with him behind my back—”

“How can we have been sneaking around behind your back when we weren’t even here?”

“Well, that’s an issue in itself, Elizabeth. When we allowed you to accept the internship, our understanding was that this was an opportunity for academic advancement, not free rein to indulge in wild fantasy—”

Uncomfortable as he is right now, Jughead can’t help but internally snort at this completely inaccurate description of Betty’s summer. Him, a wild fantasy. Sure.

“Can we at least stop acting like Jughead’s not in the car?” Betty says, turning to the backseat again. “Juggie, I’m sorry.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but just kind of shakes his head at her instead.

No one mentions stopping for lunch, not even Jughead. For once in his life, he doubts very much that he’d be able to eat.

Because the thing is, Cheryl Blossom is not the only person who might be harboring information about Jason’s disappearing act-slash-death. Polly may not have known any specific details about the local lowlifes from whom Jason intended to procure a car, but Jughead reckons he’s probably more familiar with Riverdale’s local lowlifes than she is.

Much as he hates to look this… _issue_ straight in the eye, there’s no way around it

He’s going to have to investigate his father. 

The thought sits in his stomach like the world’s densest stone, so heavy it pulls on his heart and lungs. It’s so heavy that it doesn’t bounce when Alice hits a pothole. It’s so heavy that he actually tunes out most of the ongoing front-seat argument… 

…right up until Betty hisses “Don’t think she didn’t tell me that you tried to make her get rid of the baby,” at which point Alice brings the car to a screeching halt, right in the middle of the road. 

“Excuse me?” 

“I know about the appointment you and Dad made for her,” Betty says. He can see rims of red appearing around Betty’s eyes, but no tears are collecting, and her voice is clear and steady. “At the clinic.” 

_So this is what deafening silence sounds like_ , Jughead thinks, before it registers that he’s actually just hearing a torrential downpour beating on the car. Just as he’s strongly considering making a suggestion that they _maybe_ pull over, Alice sets the car in motion again. 

She does not speak for the remainder of the journey, save for a hissed directive to Jughead that he's not to breathe a word of today's events to a single soul. It's a promise he's perfectly willing to make. 

They pull into the Coopers’ garage and park next to Betty’s father’s car. This time, Jughead knows it’s best not even to try and sneak a private moment with Betty. They lock eyes before disembarking, but Betty, the corners of her mouth turned down, hurries to follow her mother inside. 

It’s still raining. 

* * * * *

She follows close on her mother’s heels, knowing that—under the circumstances—Jughead will understand why she didn’t give him a proper goodbye. And thank goodness she is so close behind her mother, because Alice Cooper seems intent on banging every door closed behind her with gale wind force.

“ _Hal Cooper_.”

As her father’s name leaves her mother’s mouth, Betty realizes that what she currently follows is not a hurricane but an ice storm.

They find Hal in his usual spot in the home office, flipping through this morning’s _Register_.

“Oh, you’re both home,” he says, his voice mild. “Good. What’s for dinner, Alice?”

Alice Cooper comes to a halt in the doorway of the office, her hips automatically aligning in what Betty knows to be the most powerful of the power stances, and folds her arms across her chest.

She looks her husband straight in the eye.

“Get out.”

* * * * *

She answers the door before he can even finish knocking.

“That was fast,” she says, despite having just set a new world record in door response time. “You’ve been at Archie’s all afternoon?”

Jughead nods. “Is everything okay?” He peers around her shoulder, looking for signs of a wild Alice Cooper.

“My mom’s not here.” Betty steps back to let him in. “It’s safe, I promise. And hey, guess what? My dad’s not here either. Mom threw him out.” She shuts the door behind him, locks it, and starts walking; Jughead follows her to the kitchen, where she begins rooting through the refrigerator.

“She did what?”

“She threw him out.” A package of ground turkey, a bag of shredded cheese, and a head of iceberg lettuce hit the countertop, followed closely by a tub of sour cream. “You’re okay with having Taco Tuesday on a Monday, right?”

“Sure.” He tries to search her face, but she seems determined not to stand still. “Betty, are you—”

“My mom didn’t know,” she says, now searching the pantry. “She didn’t know about the abortion. That was all my dad. And I guess—well, I guess it was the last straw. She said Polly deserves autonomy over her own body even if they didn’t agree with her choices, and told him to leave.”

“Whoa.” He’s not sure what’s more impressive, the total about-face of Alice’s earlier actions or the fact that, in the middle of what was undoubtedly a heated argument, she used the phrase _autonomy over her own body_.

“Whoa indeed.” A packet of taco seasoning mix joins the other ingredients, and Betty begins preheating a skillet. “So he went to sleep in a hotel, and my mom…” Here she falters just a bit. “She went for a drive. I would have gone with her, but she said she needed to get a bunch of unprintable words out of her system.”

This sounds about right to Jughead.

“You did it,” he tells her. “You found Polly.”

Betty crosses the kitchen and presses herself against him, fitting into his arms like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle. Her head comes to rest on his chest, and he’s unable to keep himself from dropping a kiss into her hair.

“I had a lot of help.” She pulls back just enough to look at him. “Juggie, I couldn’t have—”

“Yeah, you could.”

Betty shakes her head. “I could have done the sleuthing on my own, maybe. I’m not sure I could have faced that—that _place_ alone.”

This is bullshit and Jughead knows it, but he likes the sensation of being wanted too much to argue about it.

“Anyway,” Betty says, finally breaking their hug, “I’m starving.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“That’s hardly news.” She hands him a cutting board, a kitchen knife, and a tomato. “Here. Start dicing.”

He knows he should go before Alice Cooper returns, knows he should leave as soon as they’ve eaten and cleaned up, but it’s still raining on and off and Betty seems to be in no mood to be alone.

(On top of which, Jughead is in no mood to enter his father’s trailer and begin the next phase of investigations…) 

“I wish we could go upstairs,” she says, almost wistfully. “But that’s probably a really bad idea.”

“Yeah, probably.”

They settle for baking cookies instead. Alice Cooper returns just as Betty’s putting the first cookie sheet in the oven.

“Hi, Mom,” she says, standing up straight and pulling off her oven mitts. “We made tacos. There are leftovers in—”

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry right now. I’m going to head up to bed.”

She casts an eye over Jughead, who surprisingly does not feel as though the intention is to either incinerate or castrate him.

“Just behave yourselves.”

He leaves the Cooper house about an hour later, peanut butter chocolate chip cookies in hand. They’re no defense against the world in general, he thinks. But they ought to at least get him through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sister Rita is named for [Rita of Cascia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rita_of_Cascia), patroness of all sorts of thematically-relevant-to-Polly things.
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: a strategic pillow, strategically absent fathers, and a scene I've been wanting to write for a good long while (it's not the one you think it is).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I am _so sorry_ that it has taken me over two months to update this (although I know the delay bothers me more than it does anyone else). I hope I haven't lost you all. 
> 
> Second, this chapter is a little more sexually explicit than previous installments. This is mostly due to Betty's choice of reading material--which is canon, I swear. Never before have I read 1960s French erotica for fic research, but I suppose there's a first time for everything.
> 
> Third, diaphenia is a beautiful instructional video on Cheryl Blossom's YouTube channel.

2:23. 

Betty groans, rolls over, and squeezes her eyes shut as tightly as possible. The clock in her bedroom has been mocking her all night—or morning, now, technically. She’s not sure counting sheep has ever worked, but she forces her mind to conjure up the appropriate image anyway: a sunny day with a clear blue sky, a post-and-rail fence, and fluffy clouds with black legs and faces, bleating as they leap over the wooden bars. 

When she gets to a hundred and eight sheep, she rolls over for another peek at the clock. 

2:26. 

“I give up,” she tells the clock. Then she swings her legs out of bed, creeps into the hallway, and quietly lets herself into Polly’s bedroom. Once the door is closed, she turns on the lights, blinking blindly in the sudden brightness. She’s _pretty_ sure her mother’s repose will be chemically aided tonight, and there would be little risk of Alice waking up even if elephants started marching through the kitchen, but she locks the door behind her anyway and resolves to be as silent as possible. 

Betty begins walking the room, letting her fingers trail over Polly’s bookshelves and dresser drawers. Polly’s bedroom has been left in precise order, naturally; even if Polly herself hadn’t left it that way, Betty knows for a fact her parents would have torn it apart from top to bottom after sending Polly to the Sisters, looking for incriminating evidence on Jason—and then put it back right as rain, to keep up appearances even though no one else would be entering. There’s a light layer of dust on the surfaces, though, and she’s not really sure what that means. 

She knows she should respect her sister’s privacy, even if it’s already been thoroughly violated. 

She also knows there are hiding places her parents don’t know about. Her mother would have thought to look in every drawer, inside Polly’s pillowcases, and under her mattress, but Betty can’t help but wonder whether Alice knew to check the wooden slats supporting Polly’s box springs. And she’s pretty sure her mother has never realized that teaching her daughters the basics of sewing would lead to them carefully adding secret pockets to the insides of the cushions that line their identical window seats, because no one has ever disturbed the few precious items Betty keeps in hers. 

The thing is, she tells herself, she’s doing this to _help_ Polly. Polly will understand why Betty is doing what she’s about to do. 

When her search of the bed comes up empty, Betty crosses to the window, unzips the cushion cover, and runs her hand inside until she hits the secret pocket, in which she can feel something hard and rectangular. A book, she realizes, even before she pulls it out. It’s an old volume, its cover well-worn. _The Story of O_. She flips open the front cover, and finds a small piece of thick, expensive paper tucked inside. Unfolding it reveals a short message, scrawled in blood-red ink in a hand she doesn’t recognize. The note doesn’t carry a signature or even initials, but it couldn’t be from anyone but Jason. _Thought you might enjoy, Lover_. 

“Gross,” Betty mutters. Obviously, Polly and Jason were sleeping with each other—she didn’t need to see Polly pregnant to have surmised as much—but, gross, nevertheless. 

Shrugging at nothing in particular, she lays down on Polly’s bed and begins reading.

The book starts off innocuously enough; the first couple of pages are a bit odd, but nothing off-putting. Very quickly, however, this changes. Only a few pages later, the main character O’s lover is ordering her to remove articles of clothing in the back of a taxi; not long after that, the woman is nude and made to look at herself in a mirror while other women bathe and make her up; not long after _that_ , a man wearing a masked hood (and not much else) orders her put into what essentially seems like bondage gear. 

Betty is not so naïve that she is unaware of the existence of such items, or the sexual proclivities that go along with them; she has, after all, grown up with the internet at her fingertips. But it’s safe to say that she’s been perfectly content to almost never think about those sorts of things. Discomfort is well set in by the time she gets to the next scene. 

She closes the book, feeling a bit ill. _They’re just words_ , she tells herself. They’re just words. Ink on a page. 

They’re just words, but they’re words that very matter-of-factly describe a woman undergoing sexual assault, and they’re written in such a way that Betty honestly can’t tell whether or not readers of this novel are supposed to find them… well… _enjoyable_. 

Why does Polly have this book? Why is this book something Jason thought she might enjoy? 

She takes the book back to her own room, hiding it at the bottom of a desk drawer, and then opens her laptop. A few minutes of Wikipedia research later, she feels a little better about the existence of the book in the world (historical context helps), though she still doesn’t feel very good about its existence in Polly’s bedroom. 

She looks at the clock again—2:57—and decides she really does need to get some sleep. 

But sleep, unsurprisingly, still won’t come. Not even after she’s run through all the deep breathing and relaxation exercises she knows. 

What she read in that book was _not_ , strictly speaking, sexy. But now she can’t stop thinking about sex—and not just in the abstract, either. She’s thinking very particularly about what sex might feel like, and how she might like to have it. _When_ she might like to have it. 

She looks at her phone for a good long while, but resists the urge to call Jughead. The time is now, after all, just past three in the morning, and surely even her boyfriend is asleep at this hour. Instead she rifles through the insane number of pillows on her bed until she finds one that seems reasonably Jughead-shaped, flips it so it’s perpendicular to her, and cuddles up against it, wrapping her arm around its middle. It’s neither warm nor solid. It doesn’t have lips with which to kiss her, or fingers to run through her hair and trace lightly over her skin, but it’s the best she can do. 

Her body remains stubbornly awake. 

Sucking her lower lip into her teeth, Betty repositions herself so that she’s almost straddling her substitute boyfriend pillow. Then she takes a deep breath and lets the air out slowly, slipping a hand into the waistband of her panties as she does so. She tries to imagine that the hand belongs to someone else; she tries to imagine a tickle of messy black hair against her jawline and a trace of kisses running down her neck. And if a name escapes her lips, riding on a low moan, well… 

She reaches crescendo, if not climax. But this proves enough to let her fall asleep. 

If her mother notices anything amiss when she walks through the door early the next morning, she doesn’t mention it. She simply enters without knocking, throws open the curtains, and perches herself on the window seat with a crisp “We need to talk.” 

“Can it wait until I’m awake?” Betty groans. 

Apparently, it cannot. “Get dressed,” Alice orders. “Your father’s coming to take you to breakfast, and then he’ll be leaving for Florida. He’s going to visit your grandparents for a while.” 

Betty scrambles upright, crossing her legs under the blankets. “Why?” 

“Because he is, Elizabeth.” 

“ _Mom—_ ”

Alice raises a hand. “I don’t want to argue. Your little excursion yesterday opened quite the can of worms. Now, I’m not blaming you.” 

To Betty’s ears, it sounds very much as though she _is_ being blamed. She holds her tongue for the time being, but is unable to resist raising an eyebrow at her mother. 

“I’m not,” Alice sighs. “You know, your father and I were very grateful you took the initiative to find an out-of-town internship for the summer, even if it seems to have triggered some unsavory behavior on your part. We had hoped it would let us protect you from some of the—the things we’ve been going through with your sister.” 

Betty finds she is no longer able to hold her tongue. “I don’t need to be protected,” she says. “I don’t _want_ to be protected. I want to know the truth.” 

Her mother’s laugh is high and hollow. “The truth? Oh, no, Betty, you most certainly don’t. I suppose there’s no avoiding at least parts of it now. But you need to understand something. We can’t get around what Jughead already knows, but you are not to discuss our business with anyone outside this family. You are not to breathe another word about Polly to Jughead. It could prove dangerous for her.” 

“Dangerous how? Mom, we’re not in Puritan New England. No one is going to sew a scarlet letter on her.” 

“You have _no idea_ what the Blossoms might do if they find out Polly is pregnant with Jason’s baby.” There’s so much ice in Alice’s voice that Betty actually shivers. “Do you think I wanted to hide my pregnant daughter away?” 

_Yes_ , Betty thinks. 

“I did not,” Alice sighs. It sounds like a lie. “Regardless of how the news might ruin us all, my primary concern has been for Polly’s safety—and that includes keeping Polly safe from herself. She told you the absurd plan she and Jason concocted, I’m sure.” 

Betty nods. 

“Well, I hope you understand why your father and I felt we had to do everything we could to prevent her from trying to go through with it. A _farm_.” She rolls her eyes. “Two seventeen-year-olds, one of them pregnant. No money, no jobs, no health insurance. But we couldn’t talk her out of it.” 

“Yeah, but…” There’s got to be a way to phrase the question that won’t infuriate her mother; Betty hopes she’s hitting on the right one. “Is the Sisters of Quiet Mercy really the best place for Polly, though? Do they have—are there doctors, or just nuns?” 

“Of course Polly is being seen by doctors. I’ll admit the facility is a bit macabre, but it’s hardly unsafe.” Alice takes a deep breath, and Betty again notices how well she’s dressed, how carefully she’s made up. Full armor, just to wake up her younger daughter and tell her to butt out. “I’m sure Polly also told you her belief that Jason Blossom is not dead.” 

“Yeah.”

“Obviously, faking his death was part of their plan,” Alice says with her most impressive eye roll yet. “Since no one has found a body and Jason has _not_ returned for Polly, we can only conclude that he skipped town without her. He never intended to do his fatherly duty at all. He just wanted to keep Polly quiet with visions of idyllic farms until he could make his great escape.”

With that—and a parting shot about sensible breakfasts—her mother departs. 

Much as she doesn’t want to believe Jason Blossom capable of abandoning his pregnant girlfriend and his own child, Betty mulls over her mother’s theory while she’s getting dressed. No matter how many times she turns it over in her mind, looking for logical flaws, she can’t seem to find anything major. What could be read as paranoid Alice Cooper nonsense actually makes a fair amount of sense. Jason’s body _hasn’t_ been found, and he hasn’t been heard from (except, possibly, by Cheryl) since the Fourth of July. Polly _did_ sound, if not outright crazy, then at least completely unrealistic; Betty had thought so herself, at the time. 

The part where the Blossoms might want to do nefarious things to Polly if they knew she was pregnant with Jason’s baby, though—that part, she’s not so sure about.

Still, despite what her mother might have said about keeping this all in the family, there’s absolutely no way she’s not going to update Jughead. She calls him the moment her mother leaves for work. He doesn’t pick up.

She calls Kevin. He doesn’t pick up either. She calls Archie and is sent to voicemail for a third time. 

Perched on the edge of her bed, phone in hand, Betty feels the room start to close in. It’s almost as though the pink flowers on her wallpaper are blooming for real, leaving their two-dimensional surfaces and filling the air with pollen until her throat threatens to close up. A moment later, her head starts swimming. 

Polly is gone. Her father will be gone soon. Her mother is gone, albeit only for the next few hours. Still, she’s alone, and in a way that feels more permanent than temporary. She found her sister. But instead of bringing her family back together, as she’d hoped, finding Polly seems to have driven another, bigger wedge into things. 

A tear tries to slip out. But she knows her father is on his way. She doesn’t have time to do anything other than get dressed and put on a stoic face, so that’s what she does. 

_Everything is fine_ , she tells herself. 

Everything is not fine. 

She tries again. _I’ll make everything fine_ , she tells herself, and this, at least, has the possibility of being true.

* * * * *

Aside from a quick early-morning trip to the kitchen for sustenance, Jughead stays locked in his bedroom until around eleven, when he hears the dull thud of motorcycle boots on the linoleum outside his door. The footsteps pause for a moment, then continue on, F.P. apparently having decided not to knock after all. Jughead listens for the telltale slam of the front door and then the dull, grinding roar of the truck engine before deeming it safe to emerge.

Now if only his heart would stay in his chest, where it belongs, instead of sitting in his throat. He swallows a few times, but it doesn’t help push the organ back down. A half-eaten Pop-tart on the corner of his bed—the last of four he'd plowed through, dry and doughy in his mouth—testifies, he thinks, to just how much he does not want to search the recesses of this trailer. 

He’s not even sure what he’s looking for. Or, for that matter, where he ought to start looking for whatever it is. Betty called this morning, and he muted the call instead of answering, in part because he wanted F.P. to think he was asleep and in part because he thought he’d be too wound up to be coherent. 

Cautiously, as though there might be live snakes behind the door, he steps into his father’s bedroom. It looks much as it had the first night he’d arrived back, with only a slight rearrangement of dirty clothes and cigarette butts. 

He takes a deep breath, regrets doing so instantly because it accomplishes nothing except pulling the scent of cigarette smoke into his lungs, and dives in. 

Half an hour later, he’s knee deep in half-unpacked boxes when the sound of the front door opening sends a wave of panic through his entire body. 

“Jug? You home?” 

“Yeah,” he calls, after a brief hesitation. He hears the thud of boots again, and rifles frantically through his brain for a reason he might be searching his father’s bedroom. Just in the nick of time, his eye lands on an open box at the back of the room. By the time his father makes it down the hall, he’s at the box in question. 

F.P. angles himself against the doorframe. “What are you doing back here?” 

“Looking for this.” Jughead reaches into the box and pulls out his oldest fleece-lined jacket. 

“Ah. Suppose I should’ve done more organizing before you got back.” 

“Suppose you should have.” 

For a moment, Jughead wonders if the concept of organizing had even crossed his father’s mind the entire time he was gone—or if F.P., like Jughead, had doubts that Jughead would even move into the trailer when he came back. 

(So far, it hasn’t been that bad. Lonely, yes. A little too quiet, yes. But not _that_ bad.)

“The place has less charm second time around, huh?” F.P. muses, before chuckling at the look of confusion that must have appeared on Jughead’s face. “You don’t remember this trailer from before, do you.” It’s not a question, though it feels to Jughead as though it ought to be. 

“Remember what from before?”

“Guess you wouldn’t.” F.P. straightens up, sticks his hands in the hip pockets of his jeans. “This is your grandpop’s old place. We lived here when you were born.” 

“We did?” He looks around at the walls, as though they’ll give him some insight or unleash a long-lost memory. No such insight arises. “When did we move?” 

And why did they, he wonders, if this place was standing vacant when they could have been saving money by living in it? The original Forsythe Pendleton Jones died right before he was born. It’s timing that Jughead has always found unfortunate, not because he thinks he would have liked his grandfather (he’s never heard much of anything about the man, and what he has heard has not been complimentary) but because he assumes his grandfather’s sudden demise had something to do with his parents’ choice of baby names. 

“You were three, maybe four. Your mom never liked it here. Couldn’t blame her.” He shrugs, as though none of this has turned out to matter, in the end. “You up for grabbing lunch with your old man?” 

F.P.’s wearing only a flannel shirt today, and when they climb into the truck, Jughead notices the Serpents jacket is not in its usual spot on the passenger seat. Soon enough, though, something underneath the seat makes its presence felt. One good bump in the road is all it takes to dislodge an arm, and as they drive, a cuff bounces against Jughead’s leg. He lets it, determined not to acknowledge the thing even as it rubs the seam of his jeans into his skin, irritating the hell out of him in more ways than one. 

Even with the that, the fact that lunch is a distraction intended to keep him from further searching the trailer does not occur to Jughead until almost an hour later. They’re sitting in a booth at the South Side equivalent of Pop’s (the food there is horrible, but literally every other establishment on the South Side is a bar), when F.P.’s phone rings. 

“Sorry, kid, gotta take this,” he mutters. He throws a couple of crumpled bills on the table and heads outside. In his peripheral vision, Jughead can see his father pacing outside the window, fingers tugging through his hair in what might, upon closer inspection, prove to be frustration. 

But he keeps his gaze trained on the crumpled bills, wishing he didn’t have to wonder where they came from. 

A rap on the window snaps him back to attention. F.P. jerks his head towards the parking lot and mouths _let’s go_. 

Twenty minutes later, Jughead is alone in the living room, F.P.’s truck splattering mud as it bounces out of the trailer park. He watches it go through the old lace curtains, then drops to the sofa and pulls out his phone to call Betty back. When she doesn’t answer, he heads back to F.P.’s bedroom. Even if there’s nothing of actual interest in there, he might at least find more of his warm clothes. 

He finds them. They need to be washed. Everything smells like stale cigarettes. There’s an ancient washing machine behind the trailer that may or may not work, along with a slightly mildewed clothesline; he’ll just have to hope that the machine is functional and the weather gives him a few hours without rain. 

F.P. hasn’t returned by the time Jughead’s stomach starts rumbling, so he cobbles together something resembling a meal from the refrigerator and eats without tasting much of anything. His phone rings not long after he’s done, the lock screen lighting up with a smiling face and blonde ponytail, and he rushes to his bedroom, pointlessly locking the door behind him before answering.

“Hey, you.” Betty’s voice is soft, and he can’t tell if that’s because she’s sad or because she’s trying to keep quiet. 

“Hey. Everything okay?” 

“Yeah. I mean, maybe. I don’t know.” 

It’s so easy to picture her right now—sitting on her bed, legs crossed, her endlessly perfect posture abandoned for a good slump into endless pillows. Half-consciously, he adopts the same position on his own bed (though with far fewer pillows). 

“My dad went to Florida,” she continues. 

“For how long?” 

“No idea. I don’t think either of my parents knows.” She draws a shaky breath. “I saw him for a little while this morning, and things were weird. He’s acting like this trip was all my mom’s idea—and I don’t know, maybe it was—but it feels like he’s mad at me, not her.” 

“You didn’t do anything,” he tells her. 

“Well, I kind of did. If I hadn’t found Polly…”

“That wouldn’t have changed what your parents did before you found her.” 

“I know,” Betty says, her voice small. 

“Do you want me to come over?” 

Betty chokes out a laugh. “Only if you feel like being slain by a dragon. My mother’s in quite the mood today.” 

“I’ll risk it,” he says at once, forcing an almost absurd amount of bravado into his voice. Betty laughs again, a little more freely this time. 

“No, don’t. I like you alive.” She pauses for a moment, then adds, “What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?” 

“Nothing. Why?” 

“Want to do some sleuthing? My mom has to go cover some event in Greendale. She’ll be gone until dinnertime.” 

Jughead’s ears perk up, for more than one reason. “What are we sleuthing out?” 

“Whatever’s in the attic. I think my grandparents put some old boxes in there when they moved to Florida. There’s probably nothing interesting in them, but it can’t hurt to look, right?” 

“Nope,” he agrees. 

“Come over for lunch?” Betty says next, and he quickly agrees to that too. 

They hang up not long after that. His father has yet to come back (or call, or text), and Jughead decides both he and his jacket could use a little airing out. Not wanting to take his laptop anywhere in case the overcast sky turns to rain, he wanders aimlessly for a while, kicking loose rocks across the road and contemplating Jason Blossom’s complete and utter disappearance from this earth, the car keys he and Betty found, the nagging sensation that there’s _something else_ he needs to uncover before any of this can make sense. 

When Jughead returns to the trailer slightly before ten, he finds it empty still. The next morning, he wakes early and finds F.P. passed out on the living room couch, muddy boots still on his feet. 

“Yeah, that checks out,” he says to the room at large. No one responds or even seems to hear him—not the stupid fish on the wall, and certainly not his father. 

He showers and dresses as quickly as possible, intending to sit out the morning at Pop’s, but finds himself pausing before he leaves the trailer. 

In the end, he takes off his father’s shoes. He always does.

* * * * *

“Betty Cooper, thank goodness you picked up. I’m in dire need of your impeccable knowledge of Riverdale High.”

Betty checks her phone screen again—yup, still an unidentified number from New York City—before putting it back to her ear.

“Sorry, who is this?” 

“Veronica Lodge,” says the voice on the other end, as though Betty was supposed to have divined this information from the area code alone. “And to be truthful, ‘dire’ might be a bit of an overstatement. I do, however, need to get away from my mother this morning. She’s having curtains hung. It’s all turned into a bit of a production.” 

“Okay…” Betty says, uncertain as to what any of that has to do with _her_. 

“So I’ve been looking through this list of clubs and whatnot that the school sent over,” Veronica continues, “and I have some questions.” 

“Oh. Well, this probably isn’t on the list yet because it’s just getting restarted, but I’m editor of the student newspaper—”

“Tell me about the River Vixens,” Veronica says, and Betty wonders where to begin. 

Less than an hour later, Veronica turns up on her doorstep wearing the most fashionable gym clothes Betty’s ever seen. There’s a smile on her face and a fancy bakery box in her hands. 

“Cupcakes,” she announces, not waiting for an invitation before she strides through the doorway. “We’ll _definitely_ need them later.” 

Betty leads her through to the kitchen, where Veronica places the cupcakes on the table, and takes a deep breath. “Veronica, are you sure about this?” 

“You said, and I quote—without trying to replicate your wistful tone— ‘I’d love to be a cheerleader.’ Am I sure I can make you into one? Absolutely.” 

“Yeah, but I was never very good.” Betty tugs down on the hem of the uncomfortably short shorts she’s dug out of Polly’s closet. “And I haven’t practiced since I auditioned last year.” 

“And _I_ was top of the pyramid at Spence.” Veronica’s eyes travel up and down Betty’s body, and she gives a firm nod. “You’re total smoke show material, my dear. Unless you’ve got a second left foot you’re not telling me about, I won’t even need to wave my magic wand.” 

“You haven’t met Cheryl Blossom,” Betty mutters, certain her cheeks are turning about the color of Cheryl’s usual lipstick. 

Veronica gives her an exaggerated eye roll. “Please. I’ve spent my entire life amongst New York’s elite. No offense, but how bad can someone who grew up _here_ possibly be?” 

“She—”

“If she dares besmirch your perfect figure again, I’ll punch her in the face,” Veronica says calmly. “Now escort me to the backyard, please, and bring your laptop. We have work to do.” 

Standing on her back patio half an hour later, her computer open to Cheryl Blossom’s YouTube channel and the video demonstration of this year’s audition routine, Betty wonders what, exactly, she’s gotten herself into. 

“Play it once more,” Veronica orders, hands on the hips of her own cheerleading shorts. “We’ve almost got it.” 

Betty shakes her head, but restarts the video. “ _You’ve_ almost got it.” 

“And you’ll have it too, by the end of the week.” Veronica’s eyes never leave the screen. “Trust me, B. I’ve got your back.” 

They try again. And again. And again. Over and over, until Betty’s lost track of everything other than a slight ache in her thighs.

“Routine first,” Veronica orders. “Don’t worry about how you look doing it, just focus on getting the steps down. We’ll refine later.” 

Betty bites her lip, nods, and tries to ignore the little voice in the back of her head that insists she must look like a dying giraffe. Another voice pops in a moment later to say _better that than season five Betty Draper_ , and she plants her feet in a wide stance, determined not to let her mind get the better of her. 

The full routine is still eluding her at morning’s end, but only Betty seems discouraged. In between gulps of water, she pushes a stray bit of hair back against her scalp and takes a moment to marvel at the new girl, whom she supposes is now also her new friend. _Her_ hair has been down this entire time, yet somehow, not a strand of it is out of place. 

“Do you even sweat, Veronica?” 

“I glow,” Veronica says at once, not at all winded as she drops her head into a spine stretch. Something behind Betty catches her eye, and a little upside-down grin appears on her face. “Oh, look, we’ve got an audience. Been enjoying the show?” 

“What?” A wave of panic washes over her, but immediately subsides when she turns around and sees who’s been watching them. “Juggie. How long have you been standing there?” 

He shrugs. “Only a couple of minutes. Am I interrupting something?” 

“Not at all. We were just wrapping up for the day.” Now upright and with her hair still magically perfect, Veronica sweeps by them both, plucking her own water bottle from the patio table before she enters the house. “Cupcakes before lunch, anyone? Betty, don’t forget to stretch.” 

Jughead shoots a quizzical look from the back of Veronica’s head back to Betty. “You’re trying out again?” 

“I guess so? Maybe? Veronica called me kind of out of nowhere this morning with questions about the River Vixens, and somehow that turned into her appointing herself my personal cheerleading coach. She was on the squad at her old school, obviously,” she adds. “I know, I know. I said I wasn’t going to put myself through that again, and I meant it. I just—”

She stops talking when Jughead’s hand finds her shoulder. 

“Betts, if you want to try out again, you should try out. Screw Cheryl Blossom.” His voice is completely sincere, but when she lifts her gaze, she finds a concern in his expression that she can’t quite place. 

“I guess I’ll see how I feel about it at the end of the week,” she says softly, as Veronica reappears at the patio door, cupcake box in hand. 

They settle around the patio table, Betty only picking at the frosting of her cupcake. She’ll be hungry in a little while, she knows, but right now she feels too gross and sweaty to eat. She realizes, too, that she has in fact forgotten to stretch. 

It’s no surprise that Veronica Lodge turns out to be the kind of girl who can bite into a cupcake without getting crumbs anywhere, or frosting on her face. 

“So tell me about that ginger Adonis you two were with the other night,” she says, primly peeling off a bit more foil wrapper. 

“Archie?” Betty glances over her shoulder at the Andrews house, which seems to be vacant today; Archie must have gone to work with his dad. “Well, for a start, he lives next door.” 

“Of course he does,” Veronica says with an _of course_ kind of sigh. “This does seem like that kind of town. I imagine Jughead lives on the other side of you, or across the street at most.” 

Jughead makes a little sort of throat-clearing noise, but remains otherwise silent.

“No, he doesn’t,” Betty says. “But we’ve all known each other forever. What do you want to know about Archie?” 

“Well, I suppose I ought to begin with an inquiry into his availability.” 

“He was single last week, to the best of my knowledge.” Betty shoots a look at her boyfriend, hoping for confirmation, but he merely shakes his head. 

“Yeah, I’m not getting involved in Archie’s love life.” 

Veronica makes a disappointed sort of _tut_ at Jughead’s unwillingness to gossip, and Betty makes a mental note to introduce her to Kevin as soon as possible. 

Cheerleading boot camp officially breaks up not long after that, Veronica waving them goodbye as she steps into a large black car with tinted windows that’s mysteriously appeared in front of the Cooper house. 

“Same time tomorrow?” she asks.

Betty nods. 

“I should shower,” she mutters, when she and Jughead are alone in the house; her t-shirt is still damp, and clinging uncomfortably to her skin. “I’ll be fast, I promise.” 

“Okay.” 

“Jughead?” She swallows, unsure of both how to verbalize the question and of why she needs to ask it in the first place. “Did what you were watching seem… okay, to you?” 

He raises an eyebrow. “You think I know enough about it to judge?” 

“Well, nobody else saw anything.” 

The flicker of concern comes back into Jughead’s eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, you…” His voice is low and almost strained; he licks his lips once before continuing. “You look like a cheerleader.” 

“Do you not like that?” she wonders aloud, the question spilling out before she fully realizes she’s even asking it. “Am I dating the one guy who _doesn’t_ have a cheerleader fantasy?” 

“No,” Jughead says immediately, although he looks a little stricken, like she’s hit a nerve that she didn’t know was there. “I mean…” 

“What, Jughead?” 

He takes a deep breath. “If it’s you, yeah. If you’re a cheerleader, then yes, absolutely, I have that fantasy.” 

Betty considers for a moment. “That was a surprisingly smooth recovery.” 

This earns her the shy, crooked little smile that may or may not be some kind of kryptonite. 

It takes some time—quite a bit of time, actually—before she makes it into the shower. It takes almost no time at all before they both make it into her bedroom, where she barely thinks to check that her curtains are closed (they are, thank goodness) before she and Jughead pull each other onto her bed. Jughead rolls right into her giant pile of pillows and glares at them momentarily before knocking most of them off the bed with a single sweep of his arm. 

“Hey,” Betty giggles, in between kisses. “Watch it.” 

“How do you even sleep with that many pillows? There was one right in the middle of the bed.” 

“Oh, well, _that_ one…” She glances up at him, then quickly looks down at her hands, unsure as to whether or not she ought to say it. 

She leans over, grabs the pillow from the floor, and puts it back in place. Jughead raises a quizzical eyebrow.

“It’s there because I couldn’t sleep the other night.” Her index finger traces loops around the floral-print sham. “And I was pretending it was you.” 

Jughead is suddenly very, very still, so still that Betty can’t tell if he’s going to laugh or cry. 

In the end, he does neither, just quickly takes his hat off before knocking her onto her back and kissing her so hard she can feel it all the way down to her toes. A moment after that, he sends the pillow flying again. This time, she doesn’t object. 

“Shoes,” she breathes, rushing to kick her own off. Jughead’s boots take a little longer to unlace, but then they’re gone, and then she’s untying the flannel shirt from around his waist, and then his hands are under her t-shirt, sliding up higher and higher... 

It’s only as she’s lifting her arms overhead, granting him silent permission to remove it, that Betty recalls what’s underneath it: a sweaty sports bra. 

As her t-shirt hits the floor, Betty decides that if Jughead doesn’t care about her lingerie, she doesn’t either. And Jughead does not appear to care one whit. She _does_ care about fairness and equality, though, and so on that note, she makes sure his t-shirt—and his undershirt, for good measure—are the next to go. 

The sports bra follows not long after. 

She’s let herself imagine this scenario, this first time her bra comes off, once or twice (though with nicer lingerie having been removed, of course). She’s imagined that Jughead—who to this point in their relationship has been enthusiastic about touching her, but somewhat reserved—might be reserved about this, too. 

She quickly discovers that he is not. 

Nor, strangely enough, is she. She’s half-leaning against her headboard, cushioned by too many pillows, her knees bent and her spine curved in such a way that she ought to feel self-conscious about the possibility of stomach rolls forming, but she just. Does. Not. Care, especially not after he half-kneels over her, one of his legs sliding between hers. 

“ _Yes_ ,” she mutters, reaching for his hip. Her eyes flutter closed as Jughead plants kisses down her neck, over her collarbone, between her breasts, and then open again when she realizes he’s stopped. He hovers above her, blurry until she blinks. 

She reaches a hand up, swipes the pad of her thumb across his cheek. The inner seam of his jeans presses against the mostly bare skin of her thigh, delightfully rough on her skin. 

“Everything okay, Juggie?” 

He nods. 

Betty lets her hand drift down to his shoulder, across his ribs, around to his back. _More_ , orders something deep inside her; _more skin_. She shifts just a little, raising her head to kiss him again. 

_Closer_ , says the thing inside her: not a word, not a voice, but a command. 

She reaches up her other arm, wraps that around his back too, and pulls him down. He resists slightly, as though afraid he’s going to crush her. 

“Please,” she whispers—almost whines—and Jughead acquiesces, pushing his hips down so that, finally, blessedly, his torso makes full contact with hers. 

They stay locked together, a slow-moving experiment in the differences in friction between fabric and bare skin, for an indeterminate length of time that Betty decides is simultaneously too long and not long enough. 

She feels her own name whispered into the side of her neck just before Jughead rolls off to one side, propping himself up on an elbow to look at her. She slides onto her own side, mirroring him; the new position is a bit of a relief to her back, honestly, but every other part of her screams in protest. 

A hand traces over her curves, ribs to waist to hips. “Are we—Betty, is this…” 

Betty sucks her lower lip in between her teeth and lets it go, slowly, before responding. “No, you’re right,” she says quietly. “I don’t even have, you know…” 

“Yeah, me either.” 

They let _should we get some?_ hang, unasked, in the air. 

“I guess I’ll shower now.” 

Jughead nods. 

Only when she’s standing under the warm water does Betty think to be _frightened_ : not of Jughead, not of sex itself, but of the potential consequences. The question of how Polly could have let _that_ happen has been hanging in the back of her mind since she discovered her sister’s euphemistic condition; for the first time, she sees how easy it might have been to let safety slide in the moment, to let her body overrule her rational mind. 

Being in love made her feel calm; that was what Polly had told her once. But what Betty felt just now, and she felt a lot of things— _right_ , yes, and also _good_ , and decidedly _not enough_ —calm, she had not felt. 

_Well, that wasn’t love, either_ , she reminds herself, closing her eyes as warm water carries the shampoo suds away from her scalp. Sex and love are hardly the same thing. She takes a step forward and squeezes the excess water out of her hair, then moves back under to rinse again. 

The word _love_ , she discovers, does not rinse away. 

She turns off the shower and steps out, squeezing her hair a second time before reaching for her towel. 

The word _love_ doesn’t wipe away, either. 

She does feel calm around Jughead, though, doesn’t she? Sometimes it’s a confusingly excited sort of calm, with fluttering heartbeats and shallow breaths, but more often, his presence grounds her, focuses her, makes her forget about having to pretend to be fine because, in fact, she already is. 

When she reenters her bedroom, wrapped in her fluffy towel, she finds Jughead perched on the edge of her bed, scrolling through something on his phone. 

“Sorry,” he says, averting his eyes as he gets to his feet. “I should have… I’ll let you get dressed.” 

Betty lets out a chuckle, one that feels like it comes from the very bottom of her heart. “You just saw most of this, you know,” she says teasingly, although truth be told, she had not been planning to get dressed in front of him. 

“Yeah, but…” He gestures at his own body, which is once again wearing a full complement of shirts. 

“You could start making lunch,” she suggests. “There’s sandwich stuff in the fridge.” 

Jughead nods, and leaves the room. 

She quickly dresses and blow-dries her hair, then heads downstairs, where she finds that Jughead has only gotten so far as taking all the deli meat and condiments out of the fridge and putting them on the counter. He catches her eye, a slightly pained expression on his face. 

“What?” 

“I realized I have no idea whether you like mayonnaise.” He says this as though the lack of knowledge constitutes a massive failure on his part. Inside her t-shirt, her heart swells so large that she actually glances at her own chest to see if anything looks bigger. 

_I love you_ , Betty thinks, and knows it to be true. 

“Only in tuna salad,” she says. “Not with smoked turkey.”

* * * * *

Betty’s grandparents have not left anything of interest in the attic, but as Jughead walks back to the South Side, he finds he’s not too disappointed by that fact. He did, after all, make a few more interesting discoveries over the course of the day, like that whatever bakery enjoys the patronage of Veronica Lodge makes a damn good chocolate cupcake.

Or that when Betty can’t sleep, she imagines having _him_ in her bed. 

Even now, hours later, the thought is almost too much to bear. He wonders if Betty has any idea that she’d dropped her voice for the confession, the words _I was pretending it was you_ coming out low and sultry. His mouth goes dry again at the memory of it, of _her_ , of Betty nodding and breathing near-silent _yes_ es into his ear as he slid his hands under her shirt, of Betty wriggling out of that all-too-confining sports bra… 

A twitch in his lower half reminds him that some memories are best not replayed until he’s alone, preferably in a room with a locked door. 

Instead, he thinks about Betty making the River Vixens, which—despite calling forth the inevitable image of her long legs barely concealed by a tiny blue skirt—is nevertheless sobering. Betty doesn’t see it this way, he knows, but _he_ sees it: one more straw to be piled on the camel’s back, one more nail in the coffin, one more fundamental, molecular difference between them. And he wants her to be a cheerleader, he does, because _Betty_ wants that; she’s always wanted to be a River Vixen, since long before Polly joined. Definitely longer than she’s wanted _him_. 

But then, after what happened in her bedroom earlier today, he’s as confident as he’ll ever be that she does, in fact, want him. That she still hasn’t noticed, or still doesn’t care, what he’s sure she will eventually and inevitably realize: he, Jughead Jones, is not the guy who winds up with the pretty blonde cheerleader. It’s coded into his DNA, written into his very name; the Joneses are the founding family who failed. He just has to hope that the pretty blonde cheerleader never catches on. 

(The fact that she’s also Nancy Drew is not entirely comforting, in this regard.)

He arrives back at the trailer to find his father’s truck gone and—oddly enough—a messy stack of tattered small bills on the kitchen table. Jughead squints at the money for a moment before deciding not to think about where it came from or why it’s there. In the brief amount of daylight he has left, he intends to see if that ancient washing machine works well enough that he’ll be able to avoid having to haul his stuff to the laundromat. 

The washer, like everything else at this trailer, looks like it’s been sitting in its current location since well before Jughead was born. Rust skirts its lower half, barely visible through the grass that’s grown tall around all four sides. A hose is connected to the back, which seems like a good sign. 

He dumps in the armful of clothes he’s brought from inside the house, adds a dollop of detergent left over from the bottle he had at his internship, and hits the start button. 

Nothing happens. This is probably, he realizes now, because the power cord is not plugged into anything. 

“Where do you go?” Jughead asks the plug, and gets on his hands and knees to examine the surrounding territory. There doesn't seem to be an outlet on the outside wall, but perhaps there’s an extension cord. 

He pulls out his phone and turns on its flashlight, skimming the pitiful beam under the rotting lattice woodwork that’s been stapled to the trailer’s edge. Miraculously, the light lands on something that looks promising, something that’s far enough under the trailer to be impossible to see clearly, but with a softly curved edge that suggests it might be what he’s looking for. 

Jughead finds a section of latticework that’s broken enough for him to crawl through, then scoots under the trailer, noting with some regret that now he'll have to wash these clothes right away, too. 

His fingers close not on electrical cord, but on soggy fabric. 

“What the hell,” he mutters, giving whatever’s in his grasp a tug. It’s heavy in his hand as he crawls out from under the trailer, weighed down by dampness and dirt and… 

And _blood_. Dried blood. But definitely blood. 

Jughead whips his head around, determines no one has been watching him pull this _thing_ from its hiding place, and races inside with the item. He throws it on the coffee table, closes all the curtains, and turns the lights on. Only then does he force himself to look directly at the sodden, blood-soaked, _blue and gold_ fabric. 

A jacket. A Riverdale High varsity jacket. Jughead knows this, even with the back of the jacket facing up. 

He takes a deep breath and flips it over. Sure enough, a large “R” stares blindly up at him. But the “R” is not the only letter on the jacket’s front. The opposite breast contains five more, five tiny embroidered letters that make Jughead’s stomach churn. 

_Jason_.

* * * * *

(to be continued) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are much appreciated, and more encouraging than you know. 
> 
> The next two chapters are already outlined, and although I intend to take some scheduled detours into invisible Betty/werewolf Jughead and the holiday exchange, it should _not_ take another two months for me to update this again.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: Betty Cooper, aspiring teen forensics expert; Archie Andrews, aspiring voice of reason; Veronica Lodge, aspiring future inhabitant of the real Good Place; and Jughead Jones, aspiring young Tarantino.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diaphenia is a beautiful pair of dingy yellow rubber dishwashing gloves, and managed to get through this chapter without being upset by coffee.

F.P. does not come home that night. Jughead thinks he might be okay with that for once, if it weren’t for the fact that every minute his father is gone is another minute he has to sit here, alone, with _it_.

 _It_ being Jason Blossom’s bloodstained varsity jacket.

Betty sends him a few texts that night, nothing out of the ordinary. It’s almost impossible to focus his vision on anything other than the jacket or the door his father ought to be walking through, but Jughead tries to respond in kind anyway. _You should tell her_ , says one side of his brain, and the other side almost immediately jumps in with _no, you fucking shouldn’t_.

When his eyelids start to droop, he brews an extra-strong pot of coffee and chugs it in lieu of eating dinner. He’s jumpy and wired as the clock ticks past midnight, but aside from a trip to the bathroom (and then a second, and then a third), Jughead does not leave the couch, does not let his focus drift from the horrible thing on the coffee table and, beyond it, the door his father isn’t walking through.

Should he call his father? Text him? What the hell would he even say?

“You can’t justify this one,” the jacket tells him over and over, in a voice that might be Jason’s and might not be, but it’s only when sunlight streaming through the dingy lace curtains pokes painfully at Jughead’s eyeballs that he realizes he’s been asleep. He grabs his phone to check the time, but the battery’s gone dead. After a trip to the bedroom to plug in said phone, he brews another pot of coffee, inhales half a box of cereal (without the benefit of milk, of which there is none), and sits down on the couch to start all over.

Despite the gallon or so of coffee coursing through his veins, he drifts off again, waking this time at the creak of the rusty screen door and the rattling of a knob. Jughead jumps to his feet, poised for the inevitable confrontation, but the person walking through the trailer door is not his father.

Neither of the people walking through the trailer door are his father.

“See?” Archie says to Betty, holding up a key. “I told you it would be under the gnome.”

Then the two of them look at Jughead—and, by extension, the thing he’s standing near.

As Archie notices the item on the coffee table, recognizes it, all the ruddiness drains from his complexion; he’s left whiter than marble or ghosts or the corpse of another, less fortunate All-American redheaded boy. 

In that moment, Jughead sees the two of them—his oldest friend and the girl he loves—with a director’s eye: Archie and Betty, the heroes of a B-grade horror flick in which he himself has been tagged as cannon fodder from the start. He sees dusty sunlight illuminating their beautiful faces at the top of the frame while Jason’s bloody jacket looms large at the bottom in a forced perspective that’s just slightly too on-the-nose. 

They will survive this movie, Jughead thinks. He won’t.

Betty’s eyes grow impossibly wide, and she clutches at Archie’s appropriately Herculean, henley-wrapped bicep. “Oh, my god,” she says. To her credit, her voice remains steady. “Jughead, what…”

Slowly, she releases Archie’s arm and picks her way across the gauntlet that is the trailer floor—it’s been a few days since Jughead did a beer bottle pickup, a fact that currently seems both incredibly important and incredibly meaningless—and arrives at his side.

“Is that _Jason’s_?” She doesn’t wait for him to nod. “Where—how—”

“I found it under the trailer last night,” Jughead says, his own voice thudding dully against his eardrums.

By now Archie’s joined them in their ominous loom over the coffee table. He begins to lean down, reaching out a hand for the jacket; Betty swats him away.

“Don’t touch it, Archie, it’s evidence.” 

Her hair is loose today, and as she pulls her purse strap over her head and sets the purse on the couch, he notices it’s damp as well. She smells exactly as she had when she’d emerged from the shower yesterday. Another cheerleading practice, Jughead guesses, and allows himself a few seconds to mourn the person he was less than twenty-four hours ago—the one who only had to worry that his girlfriend would realize cheerleaders didn’t date loner weirdos from the wrong side of the tracks, and not that his girlfriend would happen across overwhelming evidence that his father is involved in the disappearance and possible murder of the local golden boy.

By the time he gets to the end of this train of thought, Betty’s gone.

“What are you even doing here?” he asks Archie, whose eyes have not yet left the jacket.

“You weren’t answering your phone. We got worried.”

“Because I didn’t pick up for a couple of hours?”

“I’ve been calling you since nine this morning,” Archie says, which might mean something if Jughead had any idea what time it was. 

At that moment, a huge rattle comes from the kitchen. Jughead walks the few steps necessary to see that Betty hasn’t disappeared after all; she’s just rummaging around under the sink.

“Aha,” she says, holding up her hands—which are now covered in a pair of dingy yellow rubber gloves that, by the look of them, may have been under the sink since his grandfather owned this trailer.

Puzzlement crosses Archie’s face. “Betty, what are you doing?”

She bustles past him and into the living room, ignoring the question. “I’m guessing you haven’t talked to your dad about this yet,” she says, as she crouches next to the coffee table and takes a ribbed sleeve cuff between two fingers.

Jughead shakes his head.

“Should you be touching that?” Archie asks.

“I’m wearing gloves,” she says.

“Yeah, but—shouldn’t we be taking it to Sheriff Keller or something?”

Betty drops the sleeve and stands up. “Archie, why don’t you run to Pop’s and grab something for lunch?” He blinks, clearly taken aback, and Betty continues. “Well, that’s where we were going, wasn’t it? It’s way past lunchtime. I’m starving, and I’m sure Jughead is too.”

“Yeah, but…” Archie says again, trailing off this time when a more coherent objection apparently fails him.

“And you’ve got the truck, so you’ll be fastest.” She quickly pulls off the gloves, throwing them on the coffee table before reaching for her wallet. “Here, I’ve got plenty of cash.”

Archie’s brow furrows, as if he’s going to protest. But then he nods and says, “Okay. The usual for everyone?”

As they listen to Fred’s truck start up and drive away, Jughead becomes aware that he really, really needs to use the restroom. “Be right back,” he tells Betty, before disappearing.

Inside the bathroom (after he’s relieved himself), he splashes a little water on his face and applies a layer of deodorant; probably neither of those actions makes much of a difference. Dread still lays in his stomach, unyielding and leaden, as he reemerges to find Betty wearing the yellow rubber gloves again. She’s so clearly determined to inspect every last stitch of the bloody jacket that Jughead isn’t even sure she noticed his return until she speaks.

“How closely have you gone over this?”

“Um…” Jughead swallows, crosses to the couch, and collapses on it. “I haven’t at all.” 

“Really?” Her eyebrow raises, but her concentration remains otherwise unbroken. “I would have thought you would have— _oh_.” Carefully, Betty places the jacket back on the coffee table, turning to him as she peels off the gloves. “Oh, Jughead.”

The gloves land on top of the jacket, and a moment later, Betty lands next to him on the couch. She throws an arm around his shoulders and nuzzles her face in, pressing her forehead to his cheek.

“I’m sorry. God, I should have—I can’t even imagine how you must feel right now. Are you okay?” 

Jughead tries to shrug; he manages to coil up quite a bit of tension that way, but doesn’t succeed in releasing any of it. “I don’t know,” he admits.

“Do you think your dad…” Betty swallows instead of finishing the thought, and Jughead swallows too. Coming up with a verbal response takes an immeasurable amount of effort, but after a moment, he manages.

“What else is there to think?” The words stick in his throat. “Why else would he have _that_?”

“There are plenty of explanations,” Betty says, sitting up straight and folding her arms neatly in her lap; Jughead immediately finds himself longing for the feel of her skin on his again. “He could have found the jacket somewhere and picked it up for some reason. He could be hiding it for someone else. He could be hiding it for _Jason_ —after all, we still don’t know for a fact that Jason’s dead. We don’t know for a fact that this is Jason’s blood, either. Someone could have planted the jacket under the trailer, it—what, Jughead?”

This time, Jughead finds he cannot speak. He can only shake his head, and do his absolute best to hold himself together.

Betty regards him for a moment, her expression oddly imperceptible. Then she pushes away from the couch and disappears. Whether it’s the rational or irrational part of Jughead’s mind that starts blindly panicking over _that_ is not something he has time to figure out before Betty returns with a glass of water, which she hands to him.

He almost laughs. “Betty, I don’t think _a glass of water_ is going to fix any part of this situation.”

“Maybe not in the long run,” she says, dropping back down to the couch. “But it might make you feel a little less jittery. You’re practically sweating coffee.”

Jughead takes a sip to appease her, and unsurprisingly finds he does not feel any less jittery afterwards. She takes the glass from his hand, places it as far away from Jason’s jacket as the coffee table will allow, and turns back before pulling him into a hug.

“We’ll figure this out, okay? I promise.” Her voice is soft, but underneath all her compassion, he hears a sharp steel blade. “You helped me find Polly. I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

“Betty…” Fighting his way out of her arms is the very last thing Jughead wants to do, but he does it anyway, and swipes off his hat for deliberate emphasis; if she’s going to have a core of steel, he needs to have one too. “This isn’t a tit-for-tat situation. You don’t have to—”

“I know that,” she spits, interrupting him before he has to make himself say _get involved with my father’s possibly criminal activities_. “I know I don’t have to do anything. I _want_ to.” Betty pauses for a moment, takes a breath, bites her lip. “Whatever your dad is mixed up in, Jughead, it doesn’t matter. I love you, and I’m not going to let you deal with this alone.”

The world freezes. The entire goddamn world freezes, all of it, except for him and Betty Cooper. 

“I love you, Jughead,” she says again, words he can barely hear through all the blood that’s suddenly rushing through his ears even though nothing else moves. There is only one expression on Betty’s face right now, and however preposterous the notion seems, it matches her words exactly.

In this moment, Jughead knows only two things. One is that he does not deserve the girl in front of him; the other is that his entire life now depends on kissing her.

But first…

“Betty Cooper,” he breathes, scarcely able to believe how readily the words are springing to his lips—not that he hasn’t had them on reserve for days, weeks, months; he’d just never envisioned saying them, never let himself believe they were words she would want to hear, certainly never imagined that she would say them first. “I love you.”

He barely has time to register the smile now blooming across her face before their lips meet; barely has time to register that he’s about to lose himself completely before the unfortunate fact of the bloody jacket reasserts itself. This latter realization seems to hit both of them at once. Wordlessly, and without looking, they pull each other from the couch and away from the coffee table. Betty feels both solid and delicate in his arms; it’s only when Jughead has that thought that he realizes he’s _carrying_ her, that somehow her legs have wrapped themselves around his hips and her feet are no longer on the ground, that he’s taking her into the horrible tiny bedroom he always thought he’d hoped she would never see. For that matter, he’s always hoped she would never see the _trailer_. But she’s here now, and she loves him, and suddenly the faded faux wood paneling on the walls matters a hell of a lot less.

Betty’s back now collides with that faux wood paneling in a dull thud; her legs are wrapped tighter around him, and she’s leaning into the wall for balance as she lifts her arms overhead. She slips a little as Jughead reaches for the hem of her shirt, enough that he has to stop undressing her for a moment and catch her instead. Somehow she seems to be leading him, even though she’s not the one walking; she’s leading him to his bed, nearly throwing herself upon it, pulling him down with her.

“Yes,” she breathes, as his hands tug at the bottom of her shirt a second time; and then “Yes,” again, as he buries his face in her collarbones and allows his fingers to drift over the pink cotton of her bra, and then—

And then she scrambles upright, gasping, at the sudden and frantic pounding at the door.

“What was that?”

Jughead’s breathing so hard he can barely hear anything but his own lungs. Nevertheless, he strains his ears a bit.

“I left the key on the table,” calls a muffled but familiar voice. “I locked myself out.”

Archie. Archie, and his usual impeccable timing. 

“You should let him in,” Betty mutters.

Jughead nods, running a hand through his hair as he gets to his feet. His hat must still be on the couch, and in the interest of acting totally normal, he resolves to replace it before answering the door. “You should put your shirt back on before I do,” he says.

Betty rewards him with the tiniest and prettiest of blushes.

* * * * * 

All throughout lunch, Archie’s eyes drift between her and Jughead, never quite settling on either of them. Whether or not he has an inkling of what went down while he was gone, she supposes she’ll never know; she’d checked her appearance in the tiny bathroom before coming back out into the kitchen, and everything seemed normal enough to her, but…

Jughead’s cleared the kitchen table of the strange pile of cash that had been left there before—where he’s put the money, she’s not sure—and now the three of them sit, picking at the last of the French fries, gearing themselves up for a thorough inspection of Jason Blossom’s jacket.

“I’ve been thinking,” Archie says abruptly, to which Jughead raises an eyebrow.

“Dangerous habit to get into, Arch.”

This earns him a glare. “Look, when I came to visit you guys over the summer, and I told you about…” He trails off for a moment, shooting a look at Betty.

She nods. “Jughead told me.”

“Well, you were furious, Jughead,” Archie says simply. “You were really pissed off that I hadn’t told Sheriff Keller that we—that _I_ —heard a gunshot. And it could have been so many things other than someone shooting Jason Blossom. But that—” He nods towards the living room. “That’s definitely Jason’s jacket, and it’s definitely covered in blood.”

“What’s your point?” asks Jughead, who clearly already knows what the point is.

“You have to turn this in. It’s evidence.”

“And get my father arrested?” Jughead shifts in his chair, somehow adopting a more furious slouch. “Can I ask you something, Archie? When you got back to Riverdale after you came to visit us, did you run right to the sheriff’s station and tell Keller what you and your girlfriend heard on July Fourth?”

Archie answers only with silence.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Jughead, scowling, taps a French fry against his plate. “So let’s not lecture me on ethics. Not when this is something that could actually affect me.”

“Telling Sheriff Keller about the gunshot could actually affect _me_ —”

At this point, Betty pushes back from the table with some difficulty, her chair legs scuffing against the worn linoleum floor. Once she’s on her feet, autopilot kicks in; she collects all the greasy wrappers and used napkins, throws them in the trash, washes her hands, digs in her pocket for an elastic, and finally pulls her hair into the tightest ponytail she can manage without the aid of a hairbrush.

“Archie, do you think I like living here like this? Do you think I like having this particular father?”

Betty crosses into the living room, pulls the gloves back on, and gets to work.

“I don’t,” Jughead continues. “But have you thought for a minute about what would happen if he went to jail?”

“I…”

“At some point, someone would figure out my mom’s not here. And then I’d be gone. They would either send me to Toledo or—or god knows where else, Archie, I sure don’t.”

This had not occurred to Betty, at least not as a fully articulated thought. It strikes her so hard that she very nearly drops the jacket.

Archie, when he speaks, sounds puzzled. “You’d come stay with me and my dad,” he says, like it’s the most obvious solution in the world, and—of course, Betty thinks; it actually _is_.

Even from twelve feet away, she can hear Jughead sigh. “You can’t just promise that, Archie.” He sounds so suddenly tired, so defeated, that it takes all Betty’s willpower not to throw Archie out of the trailer right then and there—not because Archie is wrong; in fact, for once she’s pretty sure that Archie is right—but because she needs to be alone with Jughead, needs him to be alone with her, needs to pull him onto the couch and hold him until everything is okay again.

That doing so would not constitute a real solution does not occur to her for a full thirty seconds.

During those thirty seconds, she keeps studying the jacket, staring at it without really seeing, until—

“Guys?” she says, and they both look at her. “I think I found something.”

What Betty has found is, in fact, the absence of something. She’s found a hole, a small one, in the lining of a pocket. But the hole is an unsettling one. It’s too square, too regular.

“It looks like there was something sewn into the lining,” she says, pointing a rubber-gloved finger at the appropriate spot. “And then someone cut it out with some kind of blade. Look how sharp the corners are.”

Jughead, now peering over her shoulder, nods. “But what does it mean?”

None of them have any idea.

Jughead’s father still hasn’t made an appearance by the time dusk starts falling. Much as Betty wishes she could stay, she knows she needs to get back to her own house, keep her own parent from going on any sort of defensive, and so when Archie says they ought to be going, she reluctantly gets to her feet and takes both of Jughead’s hands in hers.

“Promise me you won’t stay up all night, waiting.” 

“I won’t,” he says; she thinks they both know he’s lying.

“Okay, I’m going to start up the truck,” Archie announces, much louder than necessary. “See you in a minute, Betty?”

“Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

Once the screen door has creaked shut, Jughead pulls her a little closer, moving his hands to cradle her head. His lips part slightly, but no words come out.

“We’ll figure this out,” she says softly, as Jughead studies her face. “I promise.”

He nods once, and then he licks his lips, and then he kisses her so hard she nearly melts.

Outside, the truck engine revs twice.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jug?”

He nods again, still wordless, and Betty’s heart breaks for him.

Late that night, she sits in her window seat with her diary in hand, blessedly alone with her thoughts.

Today, while she and Archie and Jughead inspected every single stitch of Jason Blossom’s jacket, Betty’s parents agreed on a change. Her father’s coming home at the end of next week, or as soon as he can get a reasonably priced plane ticket from Florida. This was announced over the dinner table in a rather blasé manner, as though a reasonably priced plane ticket was what Hal Cooper had been waiting for all along.

“And Polly?” Betty had asked, at once. “When is Polly coming home?”

Her mother had not given her an answer to that one. But she did agree to drive Betty over to the Sisters of Quiet Mercy for a visit on Saturday, provided Betty agreed to help with the getting the Sunday edition of the _Register_ out first. This she had agreed to at once. Alice is back at the _Register_ now; she’s put in so many extra hours since she kicked Hal out that Betty wonders if her mother has even slept in the past week.

But, for once, her own family is not the one she’s most concerned about.

She opens her diary to a blank page, writes the date at the top, and realizes she has no idea where to begin.

 _Begin at the beginning, Elizabeth_ , says a voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Alice, and so she does, dutifully recording all the moves she and Veronica had practiced in the morning, how she’d even started to feel as though she might master the River Vixens audition routine. Then she writes about running into Archie at the end of her driveway after she waved Veronica goodbye, how he’d asked whether she had heard from Jughead all day and she’d said no; how, after both of them called and texted a few more times to no response, they had decided to drive over there.

She avoids going into too much detail about their drive to Riverdale’s South Side, or about crossing over the line Betty has crossed surprisingly few times in her life, considering how close the train tracks are. _Arbitrary_ , she’d thought, and then a few minutes later they’d pulled up at Sunnyside Trailer Park and the divide didn’t feel so arbitrary after all. 

By the time she gets to Archie leaving to pick up lunch, her hand is cramping so hard she has to stop and stretch her fingers.

She places the diary and pen on the cushion and stands up, letting her eyes drift over to Archie’s window. Her curtains are mostly closed, so she’s not sure whether anyone would be able to see her, but Archie’s are open wide. His light is on; he’s not inside his room--downstairs watching TV with Fred, probably. However weird Archie was this summer, she’s glad he seems to have shaken it, glad he seems to have returned to his usual stubbornly loyal and good-hearted self.

Betty checks the time—she should have at least another half-hour before her mother gets home—then picks up her pen and goes back to recording the details of her day.

She writes about the jacket and finding that suspicious hole in the pocket lining. She creates a tidy bullet-point list about the leads they need to follow up on: the car keys she and Jughead found at the Twilight parking lot, whether Cheryl Blossom knows anything she’s not telling them, who the hell Archie was with down at Sweetwater River. She writes about their decision not to turn in the jacket to Sheriff Keller right away, and she tries to reason through whether or not it was the right decision.

 _It was_ , she tells herself, pausing for a moment with the cap of the pen resting against her lower lip. _It **is**_.

It’s naïve of her to think that, just because she’s met Jughead’s dad and liked him well enough, he couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with Jason Blossom’s disappearance and possible (probable, even) murder. She knows as much. But she also knows what Jughead said earlier was right: with his mom in Ohio, there’s no telling what might happen to him if his father were to be arrested or put in jail.

She adds a final bullet point to her list: _What was F.P. Jones doing the afternoon he found us investigating at the river? How did he know to look for us there?_

Jason deserves justice. Polly deserves answers. And Jughead, she thinks—Jughead deserves everything.

 _P.S._ , she concludes, as though she’s still the eight-year-old Betty who imagined that a secret best friend lived inside her diary or, alternately, that her secret best friend _was_ her diary. _I told Jughead that I love him, and he told me he loves me back_. 

The words shine up at her, recorded in bright blue ink for all posterity.

With a heavy sigh that she knows only she can hear, Betty stands up and hides her diary in the secret compartment of her window seat cushion. She doesn’t yet know what she’ll have to do. She only knows that when the time comes, she will do it.

She will even, perhaps, survive River Vixens auditions.

“Not bad,” Veronica says late the next morning. “Not bad at all.”

Betty lifts an eyebrow, which is all she can do until she catches her breath again.

“Learning the steps is the hard part, and you’ve got that down.”

“Finally,” Betty agrees, reaching for her water bottle.

“And now we have a couple of days to work on making it sexy.” 

A spray of water hits the patio table as Betty tries not to choke.

Veronica merely grins at her, raising one of those perfect eyebrows. “Oh, come on. Don’t play innocent with me, young lady. You may look like the perfect small-town girl next door, but…”

Betty tries not to wince at her new friend’s unfortunate turn of phrase. She tries, and fails immediately.

“I see I’ve struck a nerve.”

“No, it’s fine,” Betty says, waving her off.

“It’s not _fine_. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” Betty insists, which she thinks might be half true; she’s upset with herself, not Veronica. “I just… I hate that word. _Perfect_.”

“Well, at the risk of psychoanalyzing you incorrectly—babe, I get it. I do. We all need to rebrand ourselves sometimes.” She takes a delicate sip from her own water bottle, apparently contemplating whether or not to keep talking, and reaches a decision before too long. “I’m working on a similar project myself. Veronica Lodge: watch her transform before your very eyes. From spoiled Park Avenue princess to…” She gestures with her water bottle, but the sentence remains unfinished.

“To?” Betty prompts.

“To a genuinely good person, if I can swing it. Which remains to be seen. Betty, do you know why my mom and I moved to Riverdale?”

“No.”

Veronica studies her intently for a moment before responding. “You’ve heard of my father, Hiram Lodge? Lodge Industries?”

It takes a moment for the gears in Betty’s brain to grind into place, but when they do, she practically hears an audible _click_. “You’re _those_ Lodges?” she says, feeling rather stupid. Veronica is obviously rich, and she’d known _those_ Lodges were originally from Riverdale, of course, but…

“The very same,” Veronica sighs. “Turns out there’s nothing like your father getting arrested for basically all of the white-collar crimes they have on the books to make you reevaluate every life choice you’ve ever made, starting with the sadly stereotypical mean-girl ones. I’m afraid I haven’t always been very nice.”

Unsure exactly what to do with all this forthright honesty, Betty merely offers what feels to her like the weakest of platitudes: “You seem nice.” She swallows another sip of water, and then adds, “You’re helping me, and you don’t have to.”

“That’s true, I suppose. But it’s not like that’s a _chore_. I like cheerleading, and I like you, Betty Cooper.”

She tilts her head to one side, which Betty takes as a cue to hold her tongue; it’s a relief, really, not to have to blurt out _I like you too, Veronica_ , and thus come off sounding _exactly_ like the inconsequential, perfect, small-town girl next door. 

“Anyway, my point earlier was this,” Veronica continues. “Now, granted, I’ve spent almost no time with that broody Holden Caulfield of yours, but…” This time she lifts both eyebrows, in a weird way that for some reason makes Betty’s entire body feel like it’s on fire.

“But what?” Betty demands, though she’s only half sure she wants to know.

“But I’ve see the two of you look at each other,” says Veronica Lodge of the Park Avenue Lodges, “and you’re not fooling me.”

She doesn’t say how far she thinks Betty might have gone, and she doesn’t say how experienced she herself is. But there’s something in Veronica’s expression that nevertheless has Betty believing no matter what her new friend imagines she and Jughead have done, between the two of them, she is definitely the least experienced.

When she gets out of the shower, she finds a missed call from Jughead on her phone; she gets dressed, makes and packs lunch for both of them, and starts walking south before she hits redial.

“Hey, you,” she says, and then, more cautiously, “Any updates?”

“No. He still hasn’t come home.”

“Have you called him?”

“At this point, yeah, several times.” Jughead pauses, and she hears an irritated sort of exhale. “I thought maybe he forgot to charge his phone or something, but it’s not going straight to voicemail. It’s not dead. He’s just straight-up ignoring me.”

Betty automatically picks up her pace a little. “I’m sure he has a good reason for that,” she says, although she isn’t sure at all.

“Your ability to think positive thoughts under any and all circumstances is truly mind-blowing, Cooper.”

Unable to think of an actual response to that, Betty says only, “I’m on my way over now. With sandwiches.”

When she turns the last corner before the trailer park, she finds Jughead waiting for her. He’s slouched against a slightly alarming fence, one that looks like it might give him tetanus if he happened to lean the wrong way.

“I couldn’t sit there with it any longer,” he says, and then, more softly, “Hi.”

“Hi yourself.”

They walk to Sweetwater River, close to the spot from which Jason Blossom disappeared. Close, too, to where they were when Jughead’s father happened upon them back in July. She wonders if they’ve drifted here because of that, or if they’ve only found their way here because this happens to be a pretty good spot for picnics, with lots of logs and rocks to sit on. Soon enough, they find just such a log. They sit down, Betty pulls the sandwiches and soda cans from her backpack, and for the first few minutes, they eat in silence.

Soon, though, she finds questions bubbling to her surface.

“Did you just leave it there?”

Jughead sighs. “No. I wrapped it in a trash bag and hid it under the couch.” He picks a tiny piece of crust from his sandwich and rolls it into a ball. For a moment, Betty thinks he’s going to flick the ball off into the woods, but—no, he eats it instead. “Archie was right yesterday,” he says bluntly. “I _know_ he was right. I just… can’t.”

“I spent hours last night thinking about what we should do, and I couldn’t come up with a definite answer.” She takes a sip of her soda, still unsure of the best way to phrase one particular idea. “What if we turned it in, but we said we found it somewhere else? Like… we found those keys at the Twilight; why couldn’t we have found a jacket somewhere else?”

“Where were we that we just happened across Jason Blossom’s bloody jacket?”

“I don’t know,” Betty admits. “But that would—then we could at least do the right thing without incriminating your dad.”

“Maybe.” Jughead takes a sip of his own soda, stares hard into the distance for a few seconds. “Maybe not. Sheriff Keller isn’t exactly a huge fan of the Jones family. He might find a way to link my dad to the jacket anyway, or invent one.”

“What do you mean?” In Betty’s experience, Sheriff Keller has always been level-headed and reasonable—though, now she comes to think of it, all her experiences with him have been as Kevin’s friend, not as a possible criminal suspect. She knows Jughead’s dad is a little… rough, but…

They’re sitting closely enough on the log that their thighs are touching, which means they’re sitting closely enough that she can feel Jughead’s entire body tense.

“Betty, he’s a _Serpent_. He’s in the Southside Serpents. He might even be their leader at this point; I don’t really know.”

All she can get out is an insubstantial, meaningless, “Oh.”

“He’s kind of tried to keep all of that away from me. From us.”

“Oh,” she says again. “How long has he been…”

“A few years, at least. Maybe longer. He just—he’s always had a tendency to disappear for a few days at a time.” Jughead makes a weird little noise, somewhere in between a snort and a scoff. “I used to just think he was drunk and sleeping it off somewhere, but no. He’s in a gang. And I doubt law enforcement is going to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

Thousands of thoughts whirl through Betty’s mind; she hopes most of them will fall into place sooner rather than later. 

(What does she even know about the Serpents? That they’re rumored to sell drugs? That they used to hang out down at the Twilight Drive-In, looking intimidating but never really bothering anyone? That they have jackets and motorcycles? That her parents have warned her to always, always stay far away?) 

One thing she knows without having to think at all, though, is that this information doesn’t change how she feels about Jughead. She puts the remains of her sandwich and soda at her feet, lets her hand rest on his leg, and leans into him.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know that doesn’t mean a whole lot right now, but… I am. And I’m glad you told me.”

Jughead’s hand lands on top of hers, and she watches as he twines their fingers together.

“You’re still in this?”

“Of course I am.” She lifts her head just enough to kiss him.

Jughead squeezes her hand just a little bit too hard. She doesn’t complain or resist, just tries to absorb whatever tiny percentage of pain that she can.

“So what do we do?” she asks, after their lips have parted.

“I wish I knew.” Jughead sighs, lifts her hand, lets both their hands fall back to his leg. “He has to show his face again at some point, right? We wait for that, I guess.”

* * * * * 

He waits another day, and then another, and another after that, but still, his father does not return.

On Saturday, Jughead finds he can’t bear knowing Jason’s jacket is in the trailer with him, even if it’s out of sight under the couch, and decides he might as well put it back where he found it in the first place. This leads to a fresh round of indecision. Should he put it back exactly the way it was, just sort of _there_? Or should he leave it in the garbage bag? After investing way too much thought in the matter, he decides to leave it wrapped, reasoning that the garbage bag is a safer thing to take outside when neighbors might be watching—not to mention that this way, he won’t contaminate the evidence (or incriminate himself) any more than he’s already done.

On the Sunday before school starts, a father pushes through the trailer door. _A_ father. Not his.

“Jesus Christ, Jughead,” says Fred Andrews, taking in the living room with a dejected sort of look. Jughead instantly bristles; he picked up the beer bottles and the trailer’s as clean and tidy as it’s ever been, this being the one saving grace of F.P.’s prolonged absence. “How long have you been here alone?”

Over Fred’s shoulder, he can see Archie, concerned and sheepish. More bile rises in Jughead’s throat. 

“What the hell, Arch,” he spits. “What the _hell_.”

“I told you,” Archie says, raising his chin slightly. “I told you that if anything happened, you’d come stay with me and my dad.”

“What did you tell him happened?” Jughead demands, realizing only too late that if Archie somehow _didn’t_ inform Fred Andrews about the jacket already, he’s just started them both down a very slippery slope. 

“Nothing… specific.” Archie swallows, hard; thankfully, Fred isn’t looking at his decidedly suspicious son. “Because nothing specific has happened, right? I just said your dad had kind of disappeared, and your mom had moved away awhile ago, and…”

“And you’re staying with us,” Fred finishes, raising a hand before Jughead can even open his mouth to protest. “At least until F.P. turns up again.”

“I don’t need your pity,” Jughead mutters, all too aware of how pitiable this state of affairs looks. There’s half a twenty-four-pack of ramen noodles on the counter next to a box of store-brand Fruity Pebbles, and he wonders if Fred’s already started to guess that aside from the few sandwiches that found their way over with Betty, Jughead’s eaten nothing else for the past few days. He’s on just about the last of his clean clothes, having never quite managed to get the washing machine out back working, and he isn’t sure he’s had a decent night of sleep since he left Brook Glen. He has cash, but it’s the weird cash that F.P. left on the kitchen table for God knows what reason, and he’s terrified of what might happen if he spends it. 

He still doesn’t need Fred’s pity.

“It’s not pity,” Fred says. He takes a step towards the center of the kitchen, putting him into slightly brighter light, and Jughead suddenly realizes that he does appear genuinely upset at more than the decor. “Look, Jughead. Your dad is your dad. I don’t know everything he’s gotten himself into the last few years, and yeah, some of that’s on me for not keeping in touch better, but…well, you know how things went down with the company.”

He does. Not every detail, but he knows enough to be aware of the fact that the prickle of resentment he feels towards Fred now is not, in fact, Fred’s fault.

“None of which has anything to do with you, of course,” Fred continues. “Whatever F.P.’s doing right now, that’s no reflection on you, and it’s not why we’re here. Just…”

He looks around again, almost nostalgically, as though he was here a few times long ago and can’t quite comprehend that he’s not currently in a dream. Archie looks around too, aping his father in an unconscious way that might, under different circumstances, strike Jughead as hilarious.

“Just come stay with us until he comes back, okay?”

There’s a crinkle in Fred’s eye and a gentle note in his voice that transports Jughead right back to second-grade sleepovers and hot chocolate with unlimited marshmallows, to reading comic books by flashlight and getting frustrated when Archie took forever to finish each page, to waffles that came out of a waffle iron and not an Eggo box. 

His mouth goes dry, and then he nods.

They arrive at the Andrews house less than an hour later, Jughead’s old camping backpack only half full; surely, _surely_ , his father will come back before too much longer. Surely, at the very least, his father will start answering his phone before too much longer.

(Also in tow is the garbage bag of dirty clothes Jughead pulled from the non-functional washing machine, which Fred’s already thrown into his own, functional washer. But he’s loathe to count those as stuff he packed.) 

“We already have the air mattress set up,” Archie says as they head up the stairs; he’s carrying the messenger bag with Jughead’s laptop in it, under the guise of being helpful.

“Cool. Thanks.”

Once the messenger bag is set down gently on his own mattress, Archie turns around, takes a breath, and wipes his palms on the thighs of his jeans. “I’m going to see if my dad needs help with dinner.”

“Okay.”

“You know where everything is, right?”

“Yeah,” Jughead says. “Unless you relocated the linen closet since last spring.”

“Nope,” Archie replies, either failing to notice or choosing not to acknowledge the sarcasm. He bounces down the stairs with his usual ridiculous energy, leaving Jughead alone, in his room, with a half-laden backpack still slung over one shoulder and a fully loaded brain.

Or maybe he isn’t alone.

Archie’s room has one distinct advantage over any room Jughead has ever had the pleasure of calling his own, and that advantage is its view. The window itself is closed, but curtains are open on both sides of the divide; he can see Betty folded up in her window seat with a book in her hands, her usually perfect posture abandoned for the world’s slightest slump. He hasn’t seen Betty since Friday, since she spent Saturday visiting Polly and today helping her mother with the paper.

She’s looking at him.

Betty reaches for her phone, and Jughead pulls his own out of his pocket in anticipation.

“Are you moving in?”

“Temporarily. Just until my dad gets back.” He shrugs the backpack off, finally, and lets it drop to the floor. “Did you know about this plan?”

“No.” Even at this distance, he can see a tiny, delicate smile curl the corners of her lips. “I’m glad, though.”

“I would have been fine.”

“I know,” she says. “But it’s good that you don’t have to be.”

“I guess.”

There’s a noise from inside the Cooper house, one Jughead can’t actually hear through the closed glass panes. He can see Betty’s slight jump, though.

“I have to go,” she says. “Mom’s calling me for dinner.”

“Okay.”

“Talk later?”

“Okay,” he says again.

He’s helping Archie scrape the remnants of a frozen lasagna from the dinner plates when his phone buzzes.

 _I could use an after-dinner walk_ , it says. _Meet me outside?_

Archie nods him away without a word, and Jughead grabs his jacket before slipping through the back.

Under the nearest streetlamp, her hair gleaming in its pool of light, the girl next door smiles only for him.

  
  
  


(to be continued...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Once again, I apologize for the lengthy delay between chapters (though I know I'm more bothered by that than anyone else is). Thank you for sticking with me! I'm trying really, really hard to get this back on a more regular update schedule. There are technically no more holiday fics to write. I think I've found my way out of my Paul Simon Angst Death Spiral. And if I get the urge to organize a Valentine's Day fic exchange then I fully expect one of you to virtually punch me in the face and tell me _no_. 
> 
> Any thoughts, comments, reviews, motivational speeches, etc. you lovely readers could leave me would be very much appreciated, and help me keep my own butt in gear.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: the author hunched over that not-to-scale model of Riverdale in Mayor McCoy's office, pushing little pieces around the board in preparation for the final round of plot points. 
> 
> Also, pancakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back, with my apologies for the four-month (!!!) gap between chapters. 
> 
> Thanks as always to diaphenia, a beautiful pair of yellow-striped tube socks.

After all the tumult of the past few weeks, the start of the new school year feels almost like an afterthought. 

For the first time in her entire life, Betty wakes up on the fateful Monday without a pre-planned special outfit hung at the front of her closet, without having memorized all her room assignments and teachers’ names in advance, and—most significantly—without a solid knot of worry tying up her intestines underneath her usual eagerness. Today she’ll introduce Veronica around. She’ll meet briefly with the decorating committee for Friday night’s back-to-school dance. Most importantly, she’ll get the key to the old newspaper offices. 

And on Thursday, if she decides to go through with the plan, she’ll have River Vixens auditions. 

“Just visualize it,” Veronica had told her the previous night. “Visualize the routine, and imagine yourself selling the hell out of it.”

Even now, alone in her room, Betty’s cheeks turn hot as she recalls Veronica’s directive on how to “sell it”: Smile. Smile _knowingly_. Give a little extra shake of the hips here, or a little extra arch of the back there. They’d been on the phone, but even though she couldn’t see Veronica’s face, she had no problem imagining a little additional, insinuating lift of Veronica’s already arched eyebrows. 

“It’s about projecting confidence,” Veronica had said. You’re already a goddess, trust me—” at this, Betty had blushed rather hard—“but you won’t sell the routine unless you believe that. Remember a few days ago, when I encouraged you to think about that broody boyfriend of yours?” 

“Veronica—”

“Hear me out, okay? I know I’m making this sound like it’s about sex, but that’s not the point. The point is that when you’re together like that, if things are good, you forget about everything else. All the insecurities, all the stupid little thoughts that hold you back—those go away in the moment, right? And _that’s_ where your head needs to be. It’s not about the act itself. It’s about how the act makes you feel.” 

She’d fallen asleep still contemplating Veronica’s advice. 

Before she gets dressed, Betty stares down her reflection in the mirror. 

“You just have to own it,” she tells herself, but her voice sounds doubtful, and she eventually decides that there’s simply a limit as to how powerful and confident one can feel while wearing ladybug print pajama shorts.

  
  
  


“You’re not going to let your new _activities_ interfere with your study time, I hope,” says her mother, over the usual Cooper first-day-of-school breakfast of pancakes and scrambled eggs and bacon. Alice pours a glass of orange juice and sets it in front of Betty in a way that feels, somehow, passive-aggressive. 

“Mom. No, of course not.” 

There are enough pancakes and scrambled eggs and bacon on the table for four people, even though only two Coopers are currently living in the house. Impulsively, she reaches for her phone and texts Jughead to say _You and Archie should come over for pancakes_. 

“Your sister said the same thing when she decided to become a cheerleader, and look what happened there.” 

The urge to dig her fingernails into her palms strikes Betty swiftly, but she takes a deep breath and finds it mostly passes. Mostly. 

Her phone buzzes. _On my way. Archie already left for school._

“I thought you approved of me taking over the _Blue and Gold_.” 

“Obviously, I’m very pleased to see you following in my footsteps. But there are other considerations.” 

Knowing that it would only lead to a fight, Betty has not let slip that she’s even considering trying out for cheerleading again. She handled peer mentoring and dance committee duties just fine last year. That means Alice has only one “activity” in mind. 

“Is one of the considerations that Jughead’s working on the paper with me?” 

“Oh, is he?” Alice tilts her head to the side as though this is news to her, even though Betty’s certain it is not. “Well, I suppose you could have worse underlings. Just remember that you’re in charge.” 

Betty’s still undecided as to whether or not any of that was intended as a compliment when she hears a knock at the front door. 

“That’ll be Jughead now,” she says cheerfully in response to her mother’s raised eyebrow, and she jumps up to let him in. 

He makes a pretty decent dent in the stack of pancakes, which Betty knows her mother will find pleasing—even if Alice does then spend the next half-hour grilling him about why exactly he’s staying with Fred and Archie, and, when Jughead mutters “My dad’s out of town,” grilling him on where exactly F.P. has gone instead. 

“Sorry about my mom,” she says, more out of habit than anything else, as they walk to school hand-in-hand. 

Jughead bumps his upper arm gently against hers. “I’ve endured worse for a free meal.”

  
  
  


She half expects Jughead to drop her hand as they approach Riverside High. Public displays of affection were one thing in Brook Glen, where no one knew them, and they’re another thing entirely in front of Archie, who knows them both well. The entire student body of Riverdale High may very well be an insurmountable obstacle for him. 

But Jughead keeps their fingers intertwined as they ascend the stairs and enter the familiar front doors, even squeezing a little tighter as they pass a large and somewhat creepy memorial to Jason Blossom that’s been erected in the entrance hall’s trophy case. He keeps holding her hand even when they arrive in front of the main office. 

There, they find Veronica waiting for her tour. She’s clad in a short, tight plaid dress and impossibly high heels, and looks so… so _mature_ that even though Betty has gotten to know Veronica reasonably well during their week of cheerleading bootcamp and knows she isn’t being judged, she nevertheless has to shake off a slight feeling of shame at the childishness of her own jeans and floral button-down. 

Behind Veronica, a familiar face raises his eyebrows to the ceiling. 

“I see you’ve already met Kevin,” Betty says, letting go of Jughead only because Kevin steps forward, looking as though he’s about to demand a hug. 

Kevin does not demand a hug. Kevin simply stares for a moment. 

“Yes, and he’s fabulous,” Veronica says. 

“Oh, my god, the rumors are true,” says Kevin at exactly the same moment, gesturing to the still-tiny space between her and Jughead. 

Betty rolls her eyes, but she can’t help smiling. “They’re not _rumors_ , Kevin. I told you myself.” 

“Still. You have to admit it’s at least good gossip. And let’s face it, we’re all going to need something light to give us a respite from talking about what happened to Jason.” 

“You’re the third person I’ve heard mention that,” Veronica remarks. “Not to mention the shrine I walked past on my way here. Who is Jason, and what happened to him?” 

While Kevin begins to fill Veronica in, Betty goes into the office to pick up two sets of newspaper office keys from behind the front desk; she pockets one and gives the other to Jughead. She then proceeds to take Veronica on what is, by anyone’s standards, a very boring tour of the school. Kevin and Jughead accompany them, the former providing color commentary in the form of gossip, about half of which concerns the Blossoms in some way, shape, or form. Jughead remains mostly silent, his theoretical aversion to gossip clearly set aside in favor of hoping Kevin might drop a clue that might be useful to their investigation. 

As they pass the _Blue and Gold_ offices, Betty allows herself to look longingly at the door. Jughead studies it too, and she knows they’re both counting down the minutes until the final bell rings and they can roll up their sleeves and get to work. 

“So that’s about it,” she concludes, as they walk down one last corridor towards the homeroom they all share. “Riverdale High. Not much like your old school, I guess.” 

Veronica nods thoughtfully. “It’s… quaint.” The creak of hinges indicates that a door has opened in front of them, but Betty—who’s looking at Veronica, half a step behind her—doesn’t turn her head until she sees an inscrutable smile appear on her new friend’s lips. 

The creaking door belongs to the music room, and Archie edges through it backwards, with his guitar case in hand. Betty can tell that he has been, and still is, talking to the music teacher, who’s now visible on the other side of the doorframe. She can’t make out what either of them are saying over the general hum of students making their way through the halls, but Archie seems to be focused intently on the conversation. 

“Hello there, Teen Outlander,” Veronica calls, her smile evolving from inscrutable to pleased as she strides forward to meet him, and both Archie and Ms. Grundy jump a good two inches. 

There’s a blur of blue v-necked sweater in her peripheral vision as Kevin sidles up to her. 

“Before you showed up today, Veronica told me she thought she might have met someone,” he stage-whispers. “She didn’t mention that someone was Archie. This is riveting. I’m riveted.” His eyes flick back and forth from Archie and Veronica to her and Jughead, like he expects ancient history to rear its ugly head at any moment. 

Betty throws Kevin a look that she hopes conveys just how wrong he is, slips her hand back into Jughead’s, and marches them into homeroom.

  
  
  


Though today is only the first day of school, it doesn’t pass by so much as it creeps, the hands on every classroom clock moving so slowly Betty could swear they’re going backwards. 

The exception is third period, which is canceled in favor of an assembly to address the Jason Blossom issue. After Mr. Weatherbee makes the necessary speech about tragedy and the availability of the school counselor, Cheryl takes the microphone in head-to-toe white lace, her crimson lipstick distinct even from where Betty sits in the bleachers, and even though it’s half-hidden under a matching white lace veil. On Betty's right, Jughead pulls out his phone to record Cheryl’s speech. 

_Good thinking_ , she mouths silently to him, and he gives her a little grin as he taps the side of his nose with two fingers. 

“We all knew and loved Jason,” Cheryl begins. “He was truly a beacon of light in the dark, foggy mists of this godforsaken hellhole of a town.” 

On her other side, Veronica leans forward and says, “This is delightfully macabre.” On _Veronica’s_ other side, Archie takes a breath so deep that he sags, visibly, when he lets it out. 

“Are you okay, Archie?” Betty asks. 

He shrugs. “Seventeen years old, and how will he be remembered?” Archie says quietly. “As captain of the water polo team?” 

_As the father of my niece or nephew_ , Betty thinks, and then quickly chastises herself for not devoting her full attention to Cheryl’s theatrics—which, dramatic though they might be, are thankfully succinct enough not to cut into their lunch period. 

She forces herself to stop counting down the minutes after lunch, a resolve that lasts only until the middle of last period, which she spends irresponsibly reassembling their murder board in her head instead of paying attention to the teacher. 

Finally, the last bell rings. She has only to endure half an hour of decorating committee babble and confirm that she’ll be devoting her Friday afternoon to hanging up balloons, streamers, and possibly a banner in tribute to Jason Blossom, and then she’s free. 

She finds Jughead sitting cross-legged in the hallway, leaning against the _Blue and Gold_ office door with his computer open in his lap. 

“You could have gone in without me,” she says, as he shuts the laptop and stands up. 

“What, and show up the editor-in-chief?” 

Betty pulls the key from her pocket and unlocks the door, and together, they go inside. 

It’s in worse shape than she’d thought. Nothing seems to have been dusted in several years—Betty wonders briefly if the janitor, Mr. Svenson, even has a key to the room—and the technology, well… 

“It’s like they put all the outdated computers in here to die,” Jughead comments, brushing his fingers along the top of an ancient Macintosh. The gesture leaves alarmingly deep furrows. “Good thing we both have laptops.” 

Betty nods slowly. “I could put in a request for new desktops, but who knows how long it would take to actually get the purchase approved?” 

“Knowing Weatherbee, at least three years. Unless we can convince him they’re really for the football team.” 

“We need them to write about the football team?” She throws it out there as a question; Jughead merely shrugs, and she decides that since they _do_ both have laptops, they can at least get to the end of the day before she starts haranguing the principal. 

The afternoon passes in a productive, happy haze of dusting, sweeping, and rearranging furniture; finally, just before five o’clock, they’re ready to begin the real work. 

Betty pulls an overstuffed folder from her backpack, opens it, and pulls out Jason Blossom’s junior class portrait. She hands it to Jughead, who accepts it solemnly, with eyebrows raised. 

“And so it begins,” he says, pinning it to the center of the corkboard. “Again.”

  
  
  


It begins, and it continues. By Tuesday, their murder board is fully reassembled—better than ever, really, since they have more room here—and by Wednesday, they’ve produced a rough plan for the paper’s first issue, which they plan to publish the following week. At some point soon, Betty knows, they’ll have to convince a few more people to join the staff. But for now, the two of them seem up to the task. 

“So I’ll handle the varsity football team write-up,” she says, surveying the index cards they’ve taped next to the murder board. “And you still want to…” 

“Interview Ms. Grundy? Yeah.” Jughead’s perched on the edge of a desk, one leg crossed over the other, as he scribbles notes in the margins of a legal pad. 

Doubt creeps into her voice. “It feels weird. Like we’re spying on Archie or something.” 

“ _Archie_ is being weird,” Jughead says insistently. “I mean, yeah, he’s putzed around with a guitar before. But this is _serious_. He’s talking about music more than he’s talking about football tryouts. He was humming scales in his sleep last night.” 

Betty presses her lips together. Three days of Archie being obsessed doesn’t seem particularly alarming to her, not even if he’s been getting up even earlier than usual so he can fit in morning runs _and_ private guitar lessons before school. Then again, she’s not sharing a bedroom with him. 

“But how does that make Ms. Grundy suspicious?” This earns her a scowl, so she adds, “I’m just trying to play devil’s advocate here.” 

“Because every other word out of his mouth is ‘Ms. Grundy.’ And…” 

She waits a beat, then prompts, “And?” 

“Nothing,” Jughead mutters, and then, “The other night, he said he was going to ask Veronica to the dance. And I don’t think he ever did. Did he?” 

He didn’t; she’s sure Veronica would have told her. “Maybe he changed his mind. He changes his mind about girls all the time. There’s nothing suspicious about that.” 

Jughead gives her another half-exasperated scowl. 

“Hey,” she says lightly, walking the few steps necessary to close the distance between them and letting her hip bump lightly into his when she gets there. “Since when do you care about this kind of gossip, anyway?” 

“I don’t,” he grumbles. “I just want to write in peace at night, and not wake up to a 4:30 alarm every morning.” 

He stares off into space as he says it, a hard look in his eye, and Betty’s heart quivers in her chest. They’ve spent as much time as they can get away with in this office over the past two afternoons, walking home together late in the afternoons… 

But no. Jughead feels at home at the Andrews’ house, she knows that. She also knows there’s a difference between feeling at home somewhere and that place actually being your home. 

“Have you heard from your dad yet?” she asks gently. 

(She’s not sure Jughead considers the trailer home, either.) 

“No.” 

She lets him stare into space for a minute more, then nudges him with her elbow until he turns to look at her. 

“Have dinner at my house tonight,” she says, shrugging when he raises an eyebrow at the suggestion. “Either my mom’s going to cook enough for four people or she’s not going to be home at all. There doesn’t seem to be much of an in-between these days.” 

Jughead nods. 

“And you should write the article on Ms. Grundy,” she adds. “If the investigation comes to something, great. If it doesn’t, we’ll still have a good piece for the paper.”

  
  
  


As it turns out, tonight is a “cook enough for four people night,” and Alice Cooper, mood buoyed by the news that Betty’s father hasn’t been able to find a reasonably priced flight back to Riverdale and is therefore remaining in Florida for the time being, doesn’t mind the extra company at all. 

“If I didn’t know any better, Mom,” she says _sotto voce_ in the kitchen as she’s helping Alice collect the table settings, “I’d think you were happy to see Jughead.” 

This earns her a sharp _tut_. “Honestly, Betty. Whatever gave you the idea I don’t like your boyfriend?” 

_Almost everything_ , Betty thinks, but she bites her tongue. 

“In fact,” Alice says, raising her voice as she approaches the table, where Jughead sits, “I have a little proposition for you, Jughead.” 

A slight look of terror crosses his face. 

“Mom…” Betty starts; her mother waves a dismissive hand. 

“With Hal out of town, the _Register_ is a bit understaffed at the moment. Since he isn’t returning any time soon, I could use an extra hand around the offices. Given that the Twilight Drive-In is no more, I suppose you’re in need of gainful employment?” 

“Mom,” Betty says, a little sharper this time. This earns her a raised eyebrow. 

“Oh, come on, Elizabeth. Don’t be snippy.” Alice’s tone remains shockingly mild as she turns back to Jughead. “I need a part-time assistant. And you can’t convince me F.P.’s bringing in enough to give you any kind of reasonable allowance.” 

“ _Mom!_ ” 

“Shall we say ten hours a week?” 

“You don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to,” Betty mutters. 

Jughead’s face remains inscrutable as he thinks; Betty wonders if they’re the same thoughts running through her own mind. Is this a ploy to keep the two of them apart, or at least under parental supervision? Assuming her parents have been investigating Jason Blossom’s death all along, is this a good opportunity for Jughead to fill in any gaps the two of them might have missed from being out of town all summer? 

To her surprise, it takes almost no time for Jughead to agree. 

“Good. You’ll start Saturday,” says Alice. She turns to Betty again. “You’ll be helping too, in your spare time, but I expect schoolwork to be your priority.” 

As she watches her mother stride into the kitchen, one of the many framed family portraits on the wall insinuates itself into the corner of Betty’s eye. When, she wonders, will all four Coopers be under the same roof again?

In her peripheral vision, Jughead remains still. She turns back to him, and he raises one shoulder slightly. 

“I do need a job,” he says quietly. 

Betty sucks her lower lip between her teeth, feeling a slight pinch as she bites down, and then nods. 

Later that night, after Jughead has gone back to Archie’s house and she’s changed into her comfiest pajamas, she tries calling her father. 

He doesn’t pick up.

  
  
  


On Thursday afternoon, Betty enters the girls’ locker room with her jaw set and her ponytail pulled tight. 

This time, when she tugs on the black short-shorts and the close-fitting yellow and white top—when she unrolls the yellow-striped socks over her calves and ties the laces of her clean, white sneakers—she does it with Veronica at her side. Last year she was alone, even though she shouldn’t have been; last year _Polly_ should have been by her side. Or on her side, at least, since Polly was already a River Vixen. 

(Where _was_ Polly during last year’s auditions? On the sidelines laughing at her with the other girls? Surely her own sister wouldn’t have done that, though. Was she somewhere else entirely? And why can’t Betty remember?) 

Everything feels different this year. 

“We’ve been practicing for more than a week now. We’ll crush it,” Veronica tells her, through a cheerful, confident smile. “You’ll crush it.” Then she pushes open the doors to the gym and they find themselves face to face with Cheryl Blossom and her silent, judgmental inner circle of Vixens. 

Cheryl gives her a smile that might, under drastically different circumstances, be called sweet. “Dearest Elizabeth,” she says. “I see we haven’t learned our lesson after all. Have we at least learned a bit more about choreography since last year?” 

_I took five years of ballet_ , Betty thinks, biting her tongue. Instead, she forces herself to smile at Cheryl as she takes her place in line, hoping all the while that she looks as confident as Veronica but fearing that she merely looks like she’s overcompensating for nerves. 

(Which, to be perfectly honest, she is.) 

After sending a cursory scan over the assembly of would-be River Vixens, Cheryl moves to the dead center of the gym, places her hands on her hips, and gives them all a smile that sends a chill right down Betty’s spine.

“Let’s see some spirit, ladies.” She pauses, almost as though she’s forgotten to tell them something important. “Oh, and there’s been a slight change in plans. I’ve decided the posted audition routine lacked a certain… _je ne sais quoi_. Therefore, the girls and I have come up with something new. I’ll demonstrate just the once before you show me what you’ve got. Ready?” 

Betty glances sideways at Veronica, whose eyes have narrowed considerably, and who now mutters something incomprehensible (but undoubtedly not complimentary) under her breath. _Of course_ , she thinks; _of course it was always going to come to this._

“Questions? No? Good. Five, six, seven, eight,” Cheryl calls. 

Somewhere in a corner, either Tina Patel or Ginger Lopez hits play on the old, official River Vixens boom box. Three beats of music blare; on the fourth, Cheryl’s off. Somewhere between beats four and five, Betty realizes she had better at least _try_ to keep up.

  
  
  


Half an hour later, she stands with her fists on her hips and a curious sort of satisfaction rising in her still-heaving chest. She might not make the squad this year—in all likelihood, she knows, Cheryl’s dislike of Polly (and, by extension, her) is probably enough to have quashed her chances regardless of how good her audition was—but this time, at least, she knows she’s held her own. For now, she lets her mind engage in a vision of herself on the sidelines of the football field, smiling and waving in a little blue skirt. 

Then Cheryl steps in front of Betty, and Betty’s fantasy evaporates into a little puff of fog. 

“I’m impressed,” Cheryl tells her, somehow managing to make the compliment sound like a threat. “You’re _much_ less of an embarrassment this time around. Pollikins would be so proud. If only we knew how to tell her how well you did.” 

Betty swallows hard, trying to keep her expression neutral as Cheryl’s eyes bore holes right through her. Her eyes flick involuntarily to her left, where Veronica is now leaning slightly forward, as though preparing to come charging to the rescue. _No_ , Betty thinks in Veronica’s direction, willing her to stay put. Intensive coaching is one thing, but if she’s making the squad, she wants it to be on whatever merits she’s acquired and not because someone intercedes on her behalf. 

With the smallest of nods, Veronica shifts her weight back onto her heels. 

“You’re in,” Cheryl says, at long last. “Don’t make me regret the charity. I’ll have one of the gals forward you the diet plan.” 

She successfully fights back her smile, and the return of her sideline fantasy, only until Cheryl’s back is turned. Then the vision explodes with full force, her brain calling forth additional depth: She’s smiling and waving at the crowd, as before, but scanning it for one person in particular. She’s looking to the side of the bleachers as the varsity team rushes past her, an undifferentiated blue-and-gold blur. She’s tucked next to Jughead in a booth at Pop’s, still in her uniform, with Veronica and Archie across the table; she and Veronica clink milkshake glasses over a plate of fries, an emphatic _screw you_ to Cheryl’s diet plan. 

A certain frigid glare on Veronica’s face diverts her focus back to the gym, where clearly, she’s missed the first few jabs of Cheryl and Veronica’s repartee. 

“You’re looking for fire?” Veronica is saying, rather languidly. “Sorry, Cheryl Bombshell. My specialty is ice.” Despite Veronica’s casual tone, Betty can practically feel the air between the two girls crackle. 

Cheryl takes a few steps backwards and crosses her arms over her chest. “I’ll give you one more chance to impress me,” she says, clearly expecting Veronica to demonstrate some advanced acrobatic skills. 

Instead, Veronica tilts her head slightly to the right, studying Cheryl’s face with a cool consideration. Then she closes the distance between them, slides her hands into Cheryl’s hair, and pulls her into a long, slow kiss.

  
  
  


“What was that, by the way?” Betty asks later, in the locker room. She knows it doesn’t ultimately matter; the important thing is that they’re both on the squad. But her mind has been reeling ever since Veronica zipped her into the top and she saw herself in the mirror for the first time, really and truly a cheerleader, and conversation might help her feel grounded again. 

Veronica looks up from the bench, where she’s been rearranging various items in her gym bag. “What was what?” 

“You _know_ what.” 

“The kiss?” With a little shrug, Veronica zips her gym bag shut. “That was too much tongue on Cheryl’s part, if we’re being honest.” 

“I thought you were interested in Archie.” 

Veronica smiles fondly at her. “Oh, B, you’re the cutest,” she says, managing by some miracle not to sound condescending. “I won’t deny I find the boy intriguing. But in case you haven’t noticed, this school is a veritable Godiva sampler of hot gingers. Who am I to discriminate based on gender? Although, if we’re _still_ being honest…” 

“Of course we are,” Betty says quickly. 

“If _you_ were single, that scene might have played out very differently.” 

  
  
  


Veronica leaves the locker room in her street clothes, but Betty, mind still reeling, has opted not to change just yet. 

“Jug?” 

There’s no response, so she pushes the door of the _Blue and Gold_ offices all the way open and steps inside, making sure she secures both locks. Jughead’s sitting at one of the desks, typing away with his headphones on; he looks up only when she moves into his line of sight.

When he sees her, he quickly shuts the laptop and takes the headphones off. 

“Guess I don’t need to ask how it went,” he says. 

“Guess not.” 

“Are you going to wear that home?” 

Betty shakes her head. 

Truthfully, that’s the one part she hasn’t visualized yet—how to break the news to her mother. Which is stupid, she reminds herself for the fourth or fifth time today. Not only will cheerleading will look great on her college applications, it fits right into the all-American image Alice has always wanted for her. And for lack of a better word, this simmering resentment of the Blossoms that both her parents share is stupid. 

(And—the thought trickles, unbidden, into the back of her mind—did she only make the squad because Cheryl wants to keep an eye on her? Did she only get this uniform because of Polly?) 

But that has nothing to do with why she’s still wearing the uniform now. 

“I wanted you to see,” she says softly. 

Jughead swallows rather thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he crosses the room to her. The memory of Jughead’s strange hesitation when he’d first realized she might try out again bubbles up, and for a moment, it almost overwhelms her—that _this_ , after everything they’ve been through— 

But then his hands find her waist as his lips find the side of her neck, and he mumbles something that sounds (and feels) suspiciously like it might include the words “crazy hot,” and the world rights itself once again. 

She responds by grabbing the cuff of the flannel sleeve that’s dangling from his waist to pull him closer, which seems to encourage his hand to move lower, from her waist to her hip to her upper thigh, and then up to her rear—but this time _under_ the skirt. 

“That’s… really short,” he says, sounding rather delighted about it. 

Betty just yanks on the other dangling shirtsleeve, which is all it takes for him to get the hint and kiss her, good and hard. 

“We can’t at school, though,” she mutters a few minutes later. “Even if we locked the door, we can’t at school. Right?” 

Jughead takes a step back and regards her as he licks his lips. “ _If_ we could…” 

“If we could,” she echoes, not really knowing the end of the thought.

  
  
  


* * * * *

  
  
  


(to be continued...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As has been obvious to anyone capable of finding the dates of previous chapter updates or who has been subject to my existential crises on tumblr, for various reasons, this update has been far too long in coming. This chapter is a bit shorter than usual, but it does set up a lot of stuff for the last third of the fic, and so I decided it should stand on its own. (I shouldn't say third. I have the events outlined, and I think there are four chapters left to go, but usually when I say four I wind up writing nine.)
> 
> I'm well aware that irregular updates are a terrible way to keep an audience engaged. So, if you are still reading, thank you--and when you have a moment, please leave a comment/review here and let me know what you think. The muse is back, but she could always use some extra motivation to stick around :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fasten your seat belts. It's going to be a bumpy night.

In the end, Betty decides just to hang her River Vixens uniform in her closet. Her mother will notice when she notices, and they’ll have whatever argument they have, and Betty will not give in. 

Despite this resolve, she rehearses the confrontation in her head over and over as she waits for her mother to come home from work. _I do everything for everyone_ , she’ll say. _Can’t I just do this one thing for me?_ Or, no— _I’m going to do this one thing for me_. 

In the end, her carefully rehearsed counterargument comes to naught. 

In the end, Alice Cooper walks into Betty’s bedroom on Thursday night to deliver clean laundry, spots the uniform, and says, simply, “Good girl.” 

Betty looks up from her homework. “What?” 

“The River Vixens, Betty. I have to admit it didn’t occur to me, especially considering how things went for you last year, but it’s an intelligent ploy.” 

“Ploy?” Betty repeats, not quite getting it. 

Alice raises her eyebrows at Betty’s blank stare. “For getting close to Cheryl Blossom, of course. Gathering information on their family.”

Even though she has an out for the conflict, Betty’s blood starts to boil hot, and she gives her math book a decisive slam shut. “That’s not why I wanted to be a River Vixen.” 

“How did you convince that red-headed wench to give you a place on the squad? Oh, of course—” 

“I _earned_ it—”

“Undoubtedly, she wants to keep an eye on you as well,” Alice continues, talking right over Betty. “She thinks you have information on Polly. Which you do, of course, so be careful not to reveal too much. Only as much as you need to keep her engaged.” 

“ _Mom_.” 

“It’s a good play, darling, but a tricky one to maintain.” She pauses, and Betty grits her teeth, knowing what’s about to come next. “We’ll have to make sure you keep your figure.”

“Oh, my god. Will you just stop, Mom? Just stop with the comments.” 

Her mother stands in the doorway of her bedroom, ominously backlit from the hallway behind her, all icy blonde hair and impervious demeanor. Betty takes a deep breath and braces for the forthcoming explosion. 

“I know I’m not always easy on you, Elizabeth,” she says, her voice quiet but firm. “As your mother, it’s my job to keep you from making mistakes. You understand that, don’t you?” 

“What mistakes?” Betty demands, but her mother only leaves the room. “What mistakes, Mom?” 

There’s no answer, and Betty can only conclude the mistakes being referred to are Polly’s—although Polly had watched her own figure just fine, right up until she got pregnant.

Betty makes a conscious decision not to think about it any more. 

  
  
  


* * * * *

  
  
  


He can't stop thinking about her in that little blue skirt. Not because the little blue skirt is so, well, so _little_ —but because of what it means, what it represents.

It means Betty has faced down some of her worst fears. Conquered them, even. Betty entered the dragon’s lair, breathed fire right back in Cheryl Blossom’s face (or so he imagines, anyway), and emerged triumphant, a blue uniform in her clutches.

The time has more than come, Jughead knows, for him to face at least one of his own—the kind that comes with red ink, not red hair. He figures he could lock himself in the newspaper offices and make himself comfortable with a soda and some chips from the vending machines. With Betty spending her Friday afternoon decorating the gym for the back-to-school dance, no one would disturb him there. 

(And if Betty did happen to disturb him, there, well, he wouldn’t exactly _mind_. Especially not if the little blue skirt was involved again.) 

But for the first time, he’s attending the dance himself—which is, if not a whole fear in itself, at least twenty-five percent of one—and he has a couple of errands to run prior to the event. 

Before he leaves for his trek to the south side, he sticks his head in the gym to take a peek. He spots Betty almost at once; she’s up on a ladder, ponytail swishing as she hangs streamers from the rafters. Jughead keeps himself concealed in the shadows, not because he thinks she wouldn’t want to be bothered, but because he’d rather just appreciate her. Betty’s at her best—her happiest—when she’s busy, he knows, and she’s busy now. 

He stays leaning against the doorframe and watching her for longer than is probably socially acceptable, straightening up only when one of the other girls on the decorating committee nudges Betty’s leg with her elbow and jerks her head in his direction. Betty turns her head, spots him, and immediately climbs down the ladder, rushing over to him with a smile spreading across her face that he melodramatically vows never to take for granted. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

She kisses him on the cheek. “Don’t be silly. I can take a little break.” 

“No, don’t,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ve got a couple things I need to do before tonight.” 

“Okay,” Betty says. Though her smile doesn’t falter, he thinks he sees an anxious flicker in her eyes, like she’s got all his potential actions and whereabouts catalogued and an unspecified, unexpected errand doesn’t compute. “Um. I got a text from my mom earlier. She wants you to come to dinner tonight, before the dance. If you want to.” 

“Of course.” 

Betty’s expression clears ever so slightly. “I don’t know if she…” she starts, and then trails off. 

When she doesn’t continue, he prompts, “What?” 

“I don’t know. It’s just—this is weird. My parents wouldn’t even let Jason in the house. My mom definitely never invited him over for dinner or—or offered him a job, or—I don’t know.” 

Jason, Jughead knows, didn’t _need_ a job. 

Jason didn’t need to sleep on a friend’s air mattress, either. Jughead has never formally met either Clifford or Penelope Blossom, but with them being who they are and Riverdale being the town that it is, he knows enough about them: incurably uptight, inevitably formal, and oddly prone to wearing turtleneck sweaters in the middle of July. But they loved Jason, he’s sure of that, and they provided everything he needed and then some. 

Certainly, they were able to provide him with three square meals a day. 

_At the very least_ , Jughead thinks. He swallows. Something deep inside his chest creaks open, then shut. Betty didn’t mean to send him down that particular train of thought; he’s pretty sure of that. But the train has already left the station, is already picking up speed, and he’s not sure it’s safe to jump off anymore. 

“I mean,” she says, “given what happened with Polly and Jason, maybe she’s just going to threaten you with bodily harm if you don’t keep your hands to yourself.” 

“That’s probably it.” 

Betty nods, absently, more to herself than anything. Then she takes a deep breath and grins at him. 

“You won’t, though, right?” 

The train slams to a halt. 

“Since when have I ever been less than a perfect gentleman?” he demands, and she kisses him, right in front of the entire decorating committee.

  
  
  


A short while later, he crosses the railroad tracks and continues without a backwards glance, his boots leaving prints in south side mud for the first time since he left almost a week ago. He stomps past the Whyte Wyrm, allowing himself only a brief sideways glance to confirm the absence of a certain ancient pickup, and bangs his feet against the rickety wooden steps of the trailer before he goes in. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle slightly, and when he turns around in the door and scans the trailer park, he spots three teenage Serpents, a tiny pink-haired girl and two much larger boys, trying to act like they’re not watching him. 

Jughead slams the door behind him and scans the kitchen instead. He sees no evidence that his father has been home. 

But that’s not why he’s here. He’s here to pick up the suit he hadn’t thought to bring with him before. It hangs where he left it, in the back of the closet, and as he pulls it out, the thought occurs to him that he probably ought to have had it dry-cleaned. 

_Too late now_ , he thinks ruefully. 

At least he’d laundered the shirt, back in Brook Glen. The thing is wrinkled almost beyond belief, but he knows Fred has an iron. 

The little voice in the back of his head that _still_ won’t shut up about Betty deserving better tells him it’s bad enough he can’t afford anything nicer, or at the very least anything _different_ , than what he wore to the Toni Morrison event. But then he remembers—as though he could ever forget—how Betty looked at him when she first saw him in this suit, and how they’d kissed for the first time at the end of the night. How they haven’t stopped since. 

Jughead’s more rational mind orders that little voice to go to hell, and as it's been doing more and more lately, the voice kind of listens.

(Though not before it reminds him that he doesn’t have any idea how to dance.) 

He finds a garbage bag to fashion into a makeshift garment bag, tucks his clothes inside it, and heads north, but not before making a snap and possibly stupid decision. 

Grabbing a piece of scrap paper and a miraculously functional ballpoint pen from the junk drawer, he quickly scribbles _Staying at Archie’s_ and leaves the note on the kitchen table, anchoring it with the empty fruit bowl.

  
  
  


Instead of going straight to the Andrews’, he makes two stops. The first is the bodega two blocks down from the trailer park, where he knows no one will give him shit (or even look sideways at him) for buying a box of condoms. The second is unplanned, but feels suddenly necessary. He’s always done his best writing at Pop’s anyway. More to the point, even though he put them there himself, the presence of condoms in his messenger bag has opened up the kind of gnawing, churning nervousness that he knows from long experience is best satiated with a cheeseburger. 

Jughead nods “yes” to Pop Tate’s offer of _the usual_ , then plops down in his favorite booth to open both the short story he hasn’t touched in months and the feedback he got from his internship supervisor. 

It’s funny, he thinks, how much a change in one’s circumstances can change one’s perspective. Facing down these notes at the end of the summer felt Herculean, or maybe Sisyphean—insurmountable, meaningless, or possibly both at once. But now his work feels like it was written by someone else: a younger version of himself, or at the very least, a version of himself who was somehow both more naïve and, simultaneously, more jaded. 

(As it has so often over the past few days, his mind flashes on the welcome mat outside the Andrews’ front door. It’s old—he can’t remember a time that it wasn’t at least a little bit faded—and he knows it’s only a matter of time before the mat is worn out completely.) 

In any case, once he’s made himself reasonably comfortable, it’s not too much trouble to get himself back in the groove of writing something that isn’t about Jason Blossom. He stays at the diner for a couple of hours, working his way through pages and pages of notes. And, despite the looming prospect of yet another home-cooked meal courtesy of Alice Cooper, he works his way through not just a burger, but a large order of fries as well.

  
  
  


Neither Archie nor Fred are at home when he lets himself in. Where Fred is, he’s not sure, but judging by the number of rejected neckties piled on the bedroom floor, Archie seems to have dressed and left for the dance already. His new blue and gold varsity jacket rests at the foot of his bed, neatly folded. Despite the recent hyperfocus on music over sports, Jughead’s honestly surprised Archie isn’t wearing the jacket to the dance. 

He closes his eyes briefly, recalling last night’s events: how Fred had positively glowed with pride as Archie protested it was no big deal; how he’d disappeared upstairs and reappeared ten minutes later with his shirt tucked in and his five o’clock shadow gone; how Jughead had wedged himself awkwardly and uncomfortably between them in the middle seat of the truck, adopting the posture of a pretzel with scoliosis just to keep his legs from hitting the gear shift as they drove to the Chinese restaurant for a celebratory dinner. How Archie laid on his back in bed that night and stared at the ceiling with starry eyes and his arms folded under his head, deep in thought; how he’d suddenly rolled over to face Jughead on the floor and asked, in all seriousness, “Do you think it’s possible to love two things at once?” 

Jughead opens his eyes, tosses his hat on the air mattress, and heads to the bathroom for a quick shower. He does not permit himself to sigh.

  
  
  


He’s not very good at ironing shirts. But as he stands in Archie’s bedroom with only a towel around his waist, contemplating the component parts of his suit as they’re laid out on the bed, his phone buzzes. 

It’s Betty. _Nice view_.

He looks up just in time to see her curtains swish shut. 

He pulls Archie’s curtains closed, makes sure the bedroom door is locked even though he knows he’s the only one in the house, and then hesitantly opens the box of condoms and slips one in his wallet. 

(Does he even know how to put these on? Intellectually, he does—having suffered through eighth-grade health class with everyone else, and their bananas—but has he ever put one on _himself_?)

He adds a second, and then a third. Just to be safe.

  
  
  


Behind the red front door, she’s sweetly pretty in pink: the dress a crisp, smooth fabric he can’t identify, with small cutouts at the waist that look like they were made especially for his hands; her hair in loose, golden waves; her eyes bright and green as she looks at him _like that_ and says, simply, “Hi.” 

“Hi,” he echoes, through the dumb grin that’s somehow already in full bloom across his face. 

He is, in that moment, the luckiest boy in the history of Riverdale. 

A sharp “ _Ahem_ ” comes from behind his girlfriend, and it’s only then that Jughead notices Alice Cooper, looking more intimidating than anyone wearing pearls, high heels, and a floral apron ought to, staring him down with her arms folded tightly across her chest. 

Betty jumps, ever so slightly, in her own high heels. “Come in,” she says, stepping back to make room for him. 

_Fuck it_ , Jughead thinks. “You look pretty,” he tells her, and then he kisses her quickly, right there in front of her mother. 

Alice Cooper merely rolls her eyes.

  
  
  


* * * * *

  
  
  


They accept her mother’s offer of a ride to the dance only because Betty would rather not walk there in heels. She slides into the back with Jughead, and stretches her hand across the seat once she’s buckled in. 

Jughead links his pinky with hers. 

She smiles, and tries to banish her mother’s pre-dinner don’t-have-sex talk from her mind—not because she intends to sleep with him tonight, but because the phrase _I’m well acquainted with how alluring the Jones men are_ is just too weird to parse. 

Alice drops them off with her expected “Behave yourselves,” then hesitates for a moment before adding “Have fun.” 

“We will,” Jughead promises, before Betty can get a word in. He even looks sure about it.

  
  
  


“You know,” Betty says thoughtfully, as they enter the gym hand-in-hand, “this is the first time I’ve gone to a dance with a date.” She hadn’t even been asked to dance by anyone, unless Kevin counts, and she’s pretty sure he doesn’t. 

Her date shrugs, and then replies, “First time I’ve gone to a dance, period.” 

“I tried to get you to go last year, you know.”

“I know.” 

He doesn’t say more than that, and not for the first time, Betty wonders what it would have been like, Jughead attending a dance last year. Would he have asked her to dance? When she accepted—because she would have accepted; she would have accepted _anyone’s_ offer to dance with her, out of whatever combination of friendship and politeness and desperation happened to bubble up inside her—

She still doesn’t know when Jughead started _liking_ her, and isn’t sure she wants to find out; she knows the weight of unrequited feelings as well as anyone, and the thought of Jughead dragging them around for any significant length of time, and because of her, makes her heart ache in all the worst ways. 

One day, maybe, she’ll tell him how grateful she is that he never put any pressure on her, that he stood back and let her get over Archie on her own time. But for now… 

“Come on, Juggie,” she says, tugging him onto the dance floor. Jughead looks a bit stricken, but it’s a relatively slow number, so all they’ll need to do is sway. Besides, this is a _dance_. What did he expect? 

As Jughead’s hands find her waist, she drapes her own around his neck, pulling him close enough that they’d be liable to receive a reprimand, if any chaperones cared. 

But none of the chaperones do care. In fact, she doesn’t even see any chaperones. 

_Well_ , she thinks, smiling up at her boyfriend, _this night could get interesting_. 

It does, but not in the way she expects. Not in the way she would hope for. And not immediately.

  
  
  


They’re about three songs into dancing by the time Jughead finally manages to take a deep breath and relax.

“This is nice,” he tells her, ducking down to plant a kiss on her cheek. 

Somewhere behind her, there’s a loud wolf whistle, audible even over the music. Jughead casts an annoyed glare behind her head, searching for the offender. 

“I’m sure it’s just Kevin,” she says. “Ignore him.” 

“Wrong,” says a pert voice in Betty’s ear, and she turns to see that Veronica has just shimmied up to her side, clad in the most sophisticated little black dress Betty thinks she’s ever laid eyes on in her life. 

“Half wrong,” adds Kevin, whose hand Veronica is holding. “Oh, my god, Betty. This girl has _moves_.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Betty says. 

“May I cut in?” Veronica doesn’t wait for a response before she does exactly that, raising an eyebrow at Jughead as she inserts herself between them and shimmies away with her arms around Betty’s waist. “I need some girl time.” 

“Um…” Betty glances back at her boyfriend, who looks even more annoyed now, but merely lifts a shoulder in reluctant acquiescence as he’s left with only Kevin for company. She turns her gaze to Kevin quickly, raising her eyebrows in what she hopes comes through as a silent threat: _do not say or do anything that will make Jughead refuse to attend dances in the future, or I will kill you with my bare hands_. 

(Kevin raises his eyebrows back. She’s not hopeful.) 

Veronica dances her away from the boys and through the crowd, ending her insistent tug only when they’re in the quietest corner of the gym. “It’s about Archiekins,” she says in a low voice. 

“What about Archie?” 

“I’m not sure, to be honest,” Veronica admits, folding her arms across her chest like she’s suddenly felt a chill. “At one point this week, I was certain he was going to ask me to this little shindig. He didn’t, and that’s fine, you know. As Kevin so aptly put it, straight boys sometimes have to be told what they want. And so I was going to, tonight. I was on my way to ask him to dance when he suddenly disappeared into the shadows.” 

“Um, okay…” Betty says, unsure where this is going. 

“Well, he wasn’t alone.” 

“Did you see who he was with?” 

Veronica nods. “It was Cheryl Blossom.” 

For some reason, this news strikes Betty as disappointing. 

“Is there anything I should know about those two?” 

“No,” Betty says at once. “I mean, not that I know of.” She starts racking her brain for any possible connections between Archie and Cheryl, aside from the obvious one that they attend the same school, and can’t come up with any. There’s the semi-resemblance between Archie and Jason, of course, but even taking all the weird rumors about the Blossom siblings’ relationship into account… 

( _You know those aren’t true_ , Betty tells herself. _You know Jason was with Polly_.) 

“Well, I trust you,” Veronica says. She spins elegantly on her impossibly high heels and links her arm through Betty’s. “Let’s return, shall we?” 

When they return to the gym, the Pussycats have taken over from the DJ, and Veronica, interest piqued, excuses herself to stand up front and watch. Betty sidles through the crowd to the refreshment table, correctly assuming that’s where she’ll find Jughead. 

“What business of Ms. Golightly’s was so terribly urgent?” he inquires, balling up the napkin he’d been using in lieu of a plate and throwing it in the trash. 

Betty shakes her head. “Just gossip stuff. She saw Archie going off somewhere with Cheryl. She wanted to know if there was anything she should know.”

“Wow,” Jughead says. “Well, if nothing else, it’s nice to know the movies weren’t lying to me about what actually happens at these nightmare social experiments.” 

“I’ll never get you to come to a dance again, will I?” she sighs, although she knows he’s mostly exaggerating for effect. 

“What’s the next one? Homecoming?” He doesn’t wait for her to answer in the affirmative. “Betty Cooper, will you go to homecoming with me?” 

He doesn’t wait for her to answer this question, either, instead sweeping his hands into her hair and guiding her into a slow, firm kiss, one a chaperone would _definitely_ find inappropriate if any were watching. 

The kiss tastes like corn chips. But it’s so assured, so confident, that Betty decides she’s just fine with that.

  
  
  


They’re in the middle of a faster number, Josie belting out some 1980s David Bowie song in the background, when the evening starts to take its next set of turns. 

First, Veronica whirls by them. Archie’s on her arm, looking (Betty thinks, anyway) faintly ridiculous in a jeans, a suit jacket, a bow tie, and an expression that seems to indicate he’s not quite sure how he wound up in this position but is enjoying it nevertheless.

“That got resolved, then,” Betty says. 

Jughead shrugs, as best he can while they’re wrapped together. “Good for them, I guess.” 

“Is something going on between you and Archie?” 

“No,” he says, and when Betty raises her eyebrows, “ _No_ ,” more strongly. 

Less than thirty seconds later, Kevin cuts in, shunting Jughead aside again. “You will not believe who just propositioned me in the bathroom,” he says, and she feels her eyes grow wide. 

“Do I want to know?” Jughead asks, when Betty’s caught up with him again. 

“Moose Mason,” she says, slowly, “is apparently _very_ , uh…” 

Jughead winces. “I do _not_ want to know.” 

“Horse-like,” Betty finishes, using Kevin’s term, and Jughead, looking faintly nauseated, grumbles something about not needing to know about anyone’s sex life. 

They decide to take a break after the next song, but don’t even make it as far as the bleachers before Jughead is waylaid by Cheryl Blossom, who puts a hand on his shoulder, scans him up and down, and twists her ruby-red lips into an expression that’s simultaneously approving and disapproving, somehow. 

“He doesn’t clean up badly, for a hobo,” Cheryl says, sounding bored by her own conversational starter. She turns to Betty. “Fine. Bring him if you must.” 

“Excuse me?” Betty says. “Bring him where?” 

“Thornhill, of course. Did you really think I would let this school’s elite languish here, grinding their heels into this sweat-stained floor all evening? Yes, Betty.” She pauses to run her tongue over her teeth. “Much as it pains me to admit, you are entitled to the full social benefits package that comes along with the River Vixens uniform. This includes bringing your plus-one to any and all afterparties hosted by myself. I’ll expect you in half an hour.” 

“We don’t have to go,” Betty says quietly, after Cheryl has stalked away to invite another victim. A party on top of a dance, she fears, will be entirely too much to ask of Jughead. 

To her surprise, he looks almost happy. Determined, at the very least. “Are you kidding? We’re definitely attending this party.” 

“You want to go to a party?” 

“I want to go to Thornhill,” he says, raising his eyebrows at her. “Betts, come on. What better way to learn more about Jason Blossom than to spend the rest of our evening poking around his creepy ancestral home?” 

“You want to spy on them?” Betty asks, not daring to imagine what would happen if Cheryl caught them going through Jason’s bedroom. 

“Don’t you?” he counters. 

Yes, Betty realizes. She does.

  
  
  


Forty-five minutes later, she’s wedged between Archie and Jughead in the back seat of a large black town car, complete with uniformed driver. 

“Smithers, everyone. Everyone, Smithers,” says Veronica, grinning at them from the passenger side of the front seat. “Smithers, take your time on the drive.” 

“Cheryl said she wanted us there fifteen minutes ago,” Betty says, throwing him a worried glance. 

“Which is exactly why we’re taking longer than that,” Veronica replies, rather airily. 

In the noirish half-lighting of their nighttime car ride, Betty studies her childhood best friend’s face. Even though his view of Veronica is obviously impeded, Archie hasn’t taken his eyes from the passenger seat, and his eyes are softly fixed on whatever it is of her that he can see. Clearly, he's smitten again. 

Though it’s not going to be the focus of tonight’s investigation, she makes a mental note to try and figure out what it was that Archie and Cheryl were discussing earlier. She very nearly just asks him right here and now; only the reflection of Veronica’s pearls in the car’s windows keep her cognizant of the fact that she isn’t supposed to know the discussion happened at all.

  
  
  


“Well, isn’t _this_ all delightfully macabre?” says Veronica, as they pass through the old wrought iron gates of Thornhill. “I thought Cheryl was a Blossom, not an Addams.” 

“The House of Usher has not yet fallen,” Jughead says to their little group at large, and then “Ready to enter the belly of the beast?” for Betty’s ears only. 

Smithers drops them off by the front door, then disappears into the darkness. 

“Will he just wait here for you?” Betty asks, unsure how this car-and-driver thing works. 

“Normally he would, but tonight he has some errands to run for my mother,” Veronica replies. “But he’s easily summoned when we’re ready to blow the joint.” 

Inside, the party is already in full swing, with Cheryl presiding over what looks like a round of spin the bottle. Betty’s all set to duck into the hallway and start exploring immediately, and she assumes Jughead is, too, but—

“Not so fast, Juliet,” Veronica says, linking her arm through Betty’s, as she had at the dance. “No sneaking off for private time with Romeo before you make the rounds.” 

“What rounds?” Betty throws a look over her shoulder at Jughead, who grimaces slightly and follows her. Archie follows all of them, or maybe just Veronica, and the four of them are together in a solid little knot as Veronica navigates them through the chaos. 

“Wait,” Veronica says, nearly skidding to a halt in front of a baby grand piano that Betty suspects is only one of many Thornhill has to offer; it sits just to the side of some doors that Betty vaguely remembers from previous visits as leading to the maple syrup barn. “The lighting in this little nook is to die for. Group selfie, everyone. I have to document my first official Riverdale social event.”

“No,” Jughead grumbles, but he slides an arm around Betty’s shoulders anyway. 

Veronica nods in approval. “Archibald, will you do the honors?” 

Archie’s already patting down his jacket pockets. “Hold on. I can’t find my phone, it’s—”

“I have it,” Veronica announces, pulling it from her purse. “Everyone, together. Now, smile. On three, Archie, if you please.”

“One,” Archie says obligingly. “Two. Don’t forget to smile, Jug. Three—”

On three, the side door flies open with a loud bang and Kevin Keller staggers through, pale and trembling. 

“Kevin?” Betty says, rushing forward to catch her friend as he pitches onto the piano bench. “Are you okay? What—are you drunk?” 

“Not drunk,” Kevin says, shaking his head. “I just called my dad. Oh, my god, Betty, it’s—”

“Why? What’s the matter?” 

Cheryl has sauntered over to investigate Kevin’s entrance, and it’s Cheryl’s face, Cheryl’s reaction, that Betty knows will be implanted in her memories forever.

“It’s Jason Blossom,” Kevin tells her, not noticing Cheryl approaching behind him. “We found his body.”

  
  
  


Only the five of them seem to have heard Kevin’s news, much to Betty’s relief; she can't imagine the chaos that's going to ensue when word eventually makes it through the crowd at large. For now, though, they're oblivious. Cheryl remains at the eye of the hurricane, eerily frozen in her vibrant red dress while the party rages on around them, swirling in rapidly shifting patterns that only make Betty dizzy when she tries to make sense of them. 

“Call mummy and daddy,” Cheryl keeps repeating. “Call them. They’re at the pig farm.” But she doesn’t seem to have her phone on her, and doesn’t seem to be able to repeat the number she wants them to call. 

With a deep breath, Betty squares her shoulders and makes a decision. It’s not a decision she wants to make, or an action she wants to take, but she has to. Archie and Veronica seem to be tending to Cheryl now, and so what she should do is— 

“Take us to the body,” she tells Kevin, reaching behind her for Jughead’s hand at the same time. 

Kevin shakes his head. “Betty, no. I know you worship the ground Nancy Drew walked on, but you do not want to see this. Trust me.” 

“You’re right, Kevin. I don’t. But—well, we have to set up a perimeter, don’t we? Make sure nothing happens to—to Jason. To his body.” She grabs Kevin’s hand, too, and drags both boys out the side door, hoping no one will notice and follow them. 

It doesn’t work. Cheryl’s heard, and she's on her feet at once. “I need to see him.” 

Kevin throws Betty a glance— _how can I say no?_ , to which Betty shrugs—and starts leading them down the side path and over the hill to the maple syrup barn. 

“Moose stayed,” he says. “He stayed. Not right with him, but near. They were friends, you know? Him and Jason. They were friends.” 

And then it hits Betty: _Polly._

She has to tell Polly. She has to tell Polly that her boyfriend is really, truly dead. Part of her needs to look inside the barn, just so she knows it’s real; but no, _no_ , she does not want to see Jason Blossom’s corpse. 

“I need to see him,” Cheryl says again, when they arrive at the maple syrup barn. There’s a flurry of voices as everyone tries to dissuade her, Archie and Moose teaming up to physically hold her back—but Cheryl, suddenly possessed by some kind of superhuman strength, manages to wrest herself from their combined grips. “Unhand me. That’s my brother.”

Cheryl pushes the door open. Head held defiantly high, chin jutted forward, she takes five long strides into the barn and reaches for a light switch. 

Her high, anguished wail pierces the night sky.

  
  
  


There’s a dull, steady throb in Betty’s left temple after that. This is not the first time she’s seen a dead body, but it’s the first time she’s seen one outside the neat and tidy context of a funeral, and the others were elderly and died of natural causes. This is the first time she’s ever seen a _murder victim_. She’s never been drunk, either, but this, she imagines, is what a hangover must feel like: restless and exhausted at the same time. There’s so much she wants to do—so much she needs to do. But there’s nothing she _can_ do, not now, except sit outside the maple syrup barn while they wait for his dad and the rest of Riverdale’s law enforcement to arrive. 

She keeps casting glances at Cheryl, who’s about ten feet away, perched about on a fallen log with her knees hugged into her chest, staring up at the stars. 

“We were looking for a spot to—you know.” Kevin glances over at Moose. “They know, Moose. Anyway, the door to the maple syrup barn was ajar, so we snuck in. We were both using our phones as flashlights, and we turned a corner, and…”

“There he was,” Moose supplies. “Shot right between the eyes.” 

Remembering the ghostly pallor, the dark hole in Jason’s forehead, Betty shivers. The shiver is a mental chill, not a physical one, but Jughead nevertheless slips his suit jacket off and puts it around her shoulders. She tries to smile gratefully at him, fails, and sheds a single tear instead. He pulls her a little closer, leaving his hand on her arm, and she’s grateful for that, too—grateful he’s here, that she can tuck her cheek against his chest and just be _held_. 

She looks over at Cheryl again—Cheryl, who's all alone. 

“The weirdest thing is, I don’t think it was recent,” Kevin adds. “I mean, I’m obviously no expert—when was the last time anyone was murdered around here? But it looked like he had been dead for a while.” 

Jughead’s grip on her arm gets even tighter, and she glances up at him, knowing he must be thinking about the same thing she is: the bloody varsity jacket he’d found under his father’s trailer. 

“Where is he?” Jughead mutters. No one but Betty hears him.

  
  
  


News of the discovery of Jason Blossom’s body must reach all of Riverdale’s parents at once, because all their phones start ringing at the same time: hers, Veronica’s, Archie’s, Moose’s. 

“Are you safe?” demands Betty’s mother as soon as she answers the call. “Where are you? Are you at that party?” 

“Yes, Mom, I’m fine. I’m at Thornhill, but I’m fine. I’m with Jughead and Kevin and Archie and—”

“I’m on my way,” Alice says. “Do not move a muscle.” 

She hugs Betty fiercely when she arrives, a mere forty-five seconds after Sheriff Keller and his men have begun securing the crime scene. 

“I saw him, Mom,” Betty says softly. “I saw Jason.” Alice hugs her harder, and for the first time in a long time, the presence of her mother makes Betty feel profoundly safe.

But the feeling doesn’t last long. 

“I have to cover this,” Alice says, already looking over Betty’s head towards the flashing lights of the sheriff’s cars. “I want you to get home safely. I want you to lock all the doors and stay in your room. Do not leave the house, do you hear me?” 

Betty nods. 

“Good. I’m sure Fred Andrews can give you a ride when and if he shows up—the man ought to be useful for _something_ every once in a while—” 

“It’s fine, Mom,” Betty says, as another wave of exhaustion hits her. “Don’t worry about me.”

  
  
  


Smithers manages to convince the sheriff’s men to let him pull the town car fairly close to the maple syrup barn, and Betty watches Veronica, Archie, and Jughead climb in. 

“Are you going to be okay?” she says to Kevin. “You’re sure you don’t want to come with us?” 

He nods. “I want to stay with my dad.” 

“Okay. Stay safe, Kev.” 

“You know me. I have a knack for avoiding drama.” 

She knows it’s a joke, but she can’t bring herself to laugh.

Cheryl Blossom remains motionless on her log, an alabaster sculpture swathed in bright red satin.

  
  
  


The car is mostly silent on the drive back to town. Veronica rests her head elegantly against the window; Archie slumps back with his eyes closed, fiddling with the ends of his bow tie. Jughead has taken the middle of the back seat this time; he doesn’t really fit there, and his limbs are spilling over into Betty’s seat—which is fine with her. Comfort seems like a thing of the past. 

Because his thigh is pressed against hers, she too feels his phone start to vibrate—first one text, then another, and another. 

With a puzzled look, Jughead removes his arm from behind Betty’s shoulders, wrestles his hand in between them, and pulls his phone from his pocket. 

“Who the hell would be texting me?” he grumbles. 

There are five messages, all from the same number, one that does not have a name attached to it. 

_jug where r u?_ , reads the first message. 

_r u safe?_

_it’s ur dad. Had to get a new phone_

_jughead_

_where r u?_

As if in slow motion, Jughead lifts his eyes to Betty’s. Then he looks back at the phone and, with shaking fingers, types _Prove it. Prove you’re my dad_.

There’s a pause. Three dots appear on the other side of the conversation, then disappear. 

The phone rings, and Jughead almost drops it in his haste to answer. “Dad?” 

(Archie perks up.)

“What the hell—where have you _been_?” 

Jughead slumps against the seat, massaging one temple with his free hand. 

“Yes, with Fred and Archie. I left a note at the trailer, did you—” He pauses. “Okay, fine. I’ll—fine.” 

“It really was your dad?” Betty asks quietly. 

Jughead nods. 

“That’s crazy,” says Archie. “Tonight, of all nights.” 

She doesn’t have to ask Jughead if he’s wondering whether or not the timing of his father’s reappearance is a coincidence. It’s written right on his face, in the hard line of his clenched jaw. 

Betty slips her hand into his, and he grips it tightly, not letting go until Smithers pulls up to the space that divides her yard from Archie’s and they drag themselves slowly from the back seat. 

Before the town car drives away, Veronica rolls her window down. “We’ll catch up soon,” she promises. “Stay safe, everybody.”

  
  
  


* * * * *

  
  
  


His dad’s here. The old truck is parked out front, and his dad’s here, at the Andrews’, sitting on the front porch with Fred.

For a few seconds, Jughead thinks nothing about F.P. appears out the ordinary. But as his father stands up and ambles down the front steps, he sees that this isn’t the case. There’s the shadow of a bruise under F.P.’s left eye, and a scabbed-over cut on his cheek, easily visible even through the usual week’s worth of stubble. 

“Where the hell have you been?” Jughead demands, not waiting for his father to offer an opening salvo—or for F.P. to try to hug him, which for all the world is what it looks like he’s about to try and do. “Getting into bar fights again?” 

F.P. pauses in his tracks, and that familiar, roguish grin breaks across his face. “Good to see you too, Jug,” he says, clapping a hand across Jughead’s back instead. “Hot date tonight, huh? You look sharp.” 

Jughead looks to Betty, to Archie, to Fred. He wonders what conversation was being had on the porch prior to his arrival. 

“Why don’t you two use the garage to catch up?” Fred suggests, his voice gentle. “Just come inside when you’re ready, Jughead. I’m sure we can rustle up a frozen pizza or two.”

  
  
  


Once they’re alone in the garage, Jughead finds that standing still is an utter impossibility. Even a relentless pace from one side of the garage to the other doesn’t feel like enough of an outlet for his pent-up frustration. He wants to run across an entire damn field, he wants to throw boulders, he wants to fucking _hit_ something. 

“Sorry about the phone thing,” F.P. says. “Old one broke. Long story. Woulda called sooner, but I don’t have your number memorized, so—” 

Jughead does not give one single damn about his father’s misadventures with modern technology. “Where the hell have you _been_?” he demands again, more strongly this time. 

“Look, boy.” F.P. shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then runs a hand through his hair, seemingly uncertain where to begin. “I gotta lay low for a little while. Out of town. There are some things I need to take care of.”

“For the Serpents?” 

“Yeah, for the Serpents.”

The confirmation makes bile rise in Jughead’s throat, so thick he almost chokes on it. So thick he needs to lean against the wall for support. 

“Fred says you can crash with him a while longer. But I’m coming back, Jug, I swear it. I’m coming back for you.” 

“Right,” Jughead mutters. He bites his tongue before he adds _I’ll believe that when I see it_ , but his father seems to read the words on his face anyway.

“I gotta do this, okay? There’s a mess that needs cleaning up. I didn’t get the Serpents into it, but I’m the one who has to get us out.” 

“Of course you are. You have to take care of everything for them.” The words taste bitter in his mouth, and he spits them at his father. “Because the Serpents are family, right?” 

“That’s right,” says F.P. evenly. “We take care of our own.” 

And maybe Jughead should let it go. Maybe he should keep his arms folded tightly across his chest; maybe he should keep his mouth shut. But he doesn’t. For what feels like the first time in his life, he can’t swallow the bile back down. 

“What am _I_ , then?” he demands, pushing himself away from the wall. “Seriously. If the Serpents are your family, then what am I?” 

_What are Mom and Jellybean_ , his brain adds; _and why aren’t we family enough for you?_

“You’re my son,” F.P. says, seemingly incredulous that this is a question that even needs answering. 

“So what?” Jughead’s shouting now, he knows that, but he can’t bring himself to care—not that he’s shouting at his father, not that the garage walls are thin enough that half the neighborhood might be able to hear him. “What does that even mean to you?” 

(In the flash before his father can respond, the illogic of it all hits Jughead. He sees himself sitting cross-legged on Betty’s bed, engulfed in pillows, trying to reason out the situation: _He says family is important. He says the Serpents are family. So then what does it mean that he doesn’t want me anywhere near them?_

Imaginary Betty clearly understands the question he can’t even ask her in that situation— _why don’t either of my parents ever choose me?_ —because she shakes her head and places a sympathetic hand on his knee, a fat and appropriately sad tear welling beautifully in the corner of her eye.) 

“It means I’m trying to keep you safe! Jesus, kid.” F.P. pauses to drag the fingers of his left hand across his greasy scalp, and Jughead decides to stay on the offensive. 

“By literally never being around? You just disappeared for over a week without telling me. You didn’t respond to any of my messages. You didn’t even care that I was gone all summer—” 

“Hey. _Hey_.” 

A rough hand lands on his shoulder; he tries taking a step back, but F.P. moves with him. Jughead can feel the grip of his father’s fingers, strong through the single layer of his one nice shirt; usually, there would be a lot more layers to work through: a fleece-lined jacket, flannel, a t-shirt. 

“Look at me,” F.P. says, stepping in front of Jughead so that he has no choice but to obey—though he does so unwillingly, keeping his chin tucked to the floor and glaring up at his father from under furrowed brows. “Of course I cared when you split. You think I didn’t want you around? But it was for the best that you left.” 

“Sure. That’s why when Betty and I came back for the weekend, the only thing you wanted to do was get us back on a bus out of town.” 

F.P. sighs and releases Jughead’s shoulder. “Pretty sure I told you at the time that there was shit going on you didn’t know about.” 

“Yeah. Pretty sure I still don’t know what that means,” Jughead says. 

Hesitation flickers across F.P.’s face, and Jughead decides that now is the time to press.

“Dad.” Now it’s his turn to reach a hand out, his turn to feel well-worn flannel over skin and bone and sinew. “I know you have something to do with Jason Blossom’s murder, okay? I found his bloody jacket under the trailer.” 

An innocent man might wince. F.P. nearly _grins_. But it’s an abnormal grin, a tense grin, a grin that looks inexplicably like F.P. wants to bite something. Or punch something, maybe. Like Jughead. 

“Boy—” 

“I’m going to get Betty over here.” Jughead reaches into his pocket for his phone. “And then you need to tell us everything you know.” 

“Like hell I’m telling you that,” F.P. says, looking for all the world like he’s about to unleash ten thousand angry words on why Jughead ought to sit down and shut up. 

But then Betty bursts through the garage door before the first ring is even completed, still wearing her pretty pink dress and silver heels and his suit jacket over her shoulders. Has she been _listening_ , Jughead wonders? A sudden mental image of her springs to mind, Betty leaning against the garage’s outer wall with a water glass pressed to her ear, like she learned from the Nancy Drew detective handbook. 

In that moment, he’s almost crushed by the weight of how much he loves her. 

F.P. blinks once at the speed with which Betty has appeared, and then a slow grin spreads over his face. 

“Alice Cooper’s daughter for sure,” he says, mostly to himself. 

The remark clearly doesn’t require a response, but Betty gives one anyway; spying on a parent is one thing, Jughead supposes, but being impolite to a parent’s face remains impossible for her. 

“That’s right,” she says, only a trace of defiance in her voice. She crosses the garage and stands next to Jughead, so close that when she turns back to F.P., her skirt swishes enticingly against Jughead’s leg; he slides a hand onto her hip and tugs her closer still. “So what _do_ you know about Jason Blossom, Mr. Jones?” 

For a few long moments, F.P. considers the two of them. Jughead watches his father’s gaze flick up to Betty’s face, then down to Jughead’s hand on her hip. At long last, he takes a deep breath and looks Jughead straight in the eye. 

“What I know about Jason Blossom,” he says, dragging out the words, “is that the last time I saw him, he was _alive_.”

  
  
  


  
  
  


(to be continued…)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, I apologize for my inability to update this fic on anything resembling a regular schedule. If you are still reading, I love you. And, also as ever, comments are appreciated more than you know.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: parenting fails, parenting wins, and Alice Cooper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my apologies for the month between chapters. 
> 
> Diaphenia is a beautiful cherry cola, and heartunsettledsoul deserves a shout-out for helping making sure I have all my separate AU head canons straight.

Jughead and Betty stand side by side in the Andrews’ garage. He knows they’re united, but he’s not sure precisely what they’re united against. 

He hopes their opponent is not the person standing across from them. 

“Jason was alive?” Betty asks, her voice clear and strong as crystal. “When did you see him last?” 

His father grins again, the dangerous grin, the one that Jughead used to love when he was a kid and _danger_ meant something exciting that he knew his father could control: _You want to drive the truck, kid?_ , he’d say. _This is dangerous. Don’t let your mom know_ , and Jughead would wedge himself between his father’s knees so he could steer as they bumped around the edges of construction sites or down abandoned dirt roads. 

“Mr. Jones,” she says, “please. My sister, Polly, she…” 

At the mention of Polly, F.P. looks a little ill. “Shit. Look, I never saw your sister. Not in any of this. Got something of the Blossom kid’s, though. If she ever turns up, I figure it’s rightfully hers.” 

“If she ever turns up?” Betty repeats. “She’s not missing. I mean, we know where she is.” 

This news appears to surprise him. “She’s not?” 

“Dad…” Jughead’s head is throbbing—with fatigue, confusion, caffeine withdrawal, who the hell knows. With the shock from seeing, _actually seeing_ , Jason Blossom’s corpse. Definitely with that. “Will you just start from the beginning? You obviously know something we don’t.” 

“I know a lot of things you don’t, boy. That’s on purpose. I keep telling you, it’s safer for you not to be involved. Christ, I thought we went over that this summer, when you were poking around in the woods where you didn’t belong. If Joaquin hadn’t spotted you when he did, and called me—” 

“Well, we are involved,” Betty interjects, jutting out her chin. “My sister is wrapped up in all of this, which you seem to have known already, and that means I am. And that means Jughead is.” 

F.P. looks from Jughead to Betty and back again, lets out a short, exhausted laugh, and gestures at Archie’s weightlifting bench. “If that’s the way you want it,” he says. “Have a seat. Sure as hell not going to tell you everything, but…” He shrugs. “The parts about your sister, you’ve got a right to know those. So does Alice, come to think of it.” 

“My parents aren’t home,” Betty says, as she arranges herself neatly on the bench; Jughead moves to stand behind her. “Mom’s covering the crime scene, and my dad is—” 

“What Hal doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” F.P. pulls a stool away from the wall and sits on it, hooking the heels of his boots on the old wooden rungs. “All right. First things first. Jason came to, uh…” 

“Betty knows you’re a Serpent,” Jughead says flatly. “Let’s just get that card on the table.” 

“Fair enough.” F.P. runs a hand through his hair, takes a deep breath, and begins. “Jason came to us right before the school year ended. Said he needed money and a car to get away with his girl. Said he needed help.” 

Jughead places a hand on Betty’s shoulder, and she puts her own on top of his, squeezing tightly as if to reassure him that she’ll remember everything, and he can space out a little if he needs to. 

He needs to, but he won’t allow himself to do it.

  
  
  


The tale Jughead’s father tells them is remarkably consistent with the one Polly delivered to Betty, the first day they visited her at the Sisters of Quiet Mercy. 

Towards the end of the school year, Jason Blossom went to the Serpents looking for help getting himself and Polly away from Riverdale. After some debate amongst themselves, they decided to cut him in on a deal: he’d drive up to Canada and make a delivery for them, in exchange for a particularly good cut of their usual take and the car itself. Jason didn’t tell F.P. any details of how he’d planned to fake his own death, and F.P. didn’t want to know. He simply packed up an old car with drugs and the few possessions Jason planned to take with him, and waited for Jason to show up at the rendezvous point. When Jason failed to show, and when it became clear the woods would soon be overrun with law enforcement and other search parties, F.P. and the Serpents moved the getaway car and completed the run themselves. 

Every so often, at a particular detail, Betty twitches in a way that tells Jughead she’s thinking what he’s thinking. They’ll have to sit down together later and line everything up, and there’s always the possibility that F.P. is withholding or obscuring more details than he’ll admit. But F.P.’s pieces line up so neatly with what they already know that there’s no real reason to doubt him. 

It makes Jughead feel sick. On some level, he’s always known his father’s been involved in shady barroom deals and activities of questionable legality. But it’s one thing to hear rumors about those activities, and quite another to hear his father flat-out admit that he’s involved in the drug trade. All F.P.’s assurances that this is temporary, that he’s hard at work figuring out a plan to get the Serpents to “go legit,” well—those don’t count for very much right now. 

“So whose blood is on Jason’s varsity jacket?” he demands. “And what was sewn into the lining of it? Do you realize how suspicious it looks for you to have that jacket, even if it _wasn’t_ covered in blood?” 

“I’m not stupid, Jughead,” F.P. says, scoffing a little. “Of course I do. Most of the kid’s shit is either hidden or destroyed—”

“It’s not very well hidden if I found it just trying to do laundry—” 

“—and the blood’s mine,” F.P. concludes. “Well, some of it might belong to one of the other Serpents. Had a bit of a disagreement over what to do with that jacket.” 

“See, I told you the blood might not be Jason’s,” Betty says, in what Jughead assumes is an attempt to be reassuring. 

He is not reassured. 

“Look,” F.P. says, standing up. “It’s late, and I shouldn’t be within fifty miles of Riverdale right now. You said you know where your sister is?” 

Betty nods. 

“I got something for her in my truck. You—” He points at Betty. “You should get home before your mother turns up. And _you_ —” He points at Jughead. “Stick with Fred for as long as he’ll have you. If he won’t anymore, promise me you’ll stay away from the south side.” 

“What?” Jughead’s head never stopped pounding, but it picks up even stronger. He thinks, now that it may never stop. 

“Stay away from the south side,” F.P. repeats. “Stay away from the Serpents, even the little ones. They might seem harmless, and they might _be_ harmless, but—well, my blood might wind up on another jacket before all this is over. So you, boy, had better lay low until I get the nest cleaned out.”

“Jesus _Christ_ , Dad, what—”

F.P. holds up a hand, and Jughead forces himself to stop talking; he has to literally bite his tongue to do it. 

“Most of all—there’s a great big one, long hair, goes by Tall Boy. And a woman, a lawyer named Penny Peabody—they call her the Snake Charmer. Either one of them approach you, you say _nothing_. Don’t tell ‘em you saw me, don’t tell ‘em you’ve got my new number. They don’t think I’ll tell you anything about Serpent business. Play dumb. It’ll keep you safe.” 

Betty clutches his hand. He does not feel safe. 

He does feel dumb, as they follow F.P. out to the truck. Dumb for holding even a shred of hope in his heart that things might not be as bad as they looked. Dumb for letting himself ever think for a minute that one day, his father might decide to leave the Serpents behind, or to put more effort—any effort, really—into his actual family. Dumb for imagining that things had been getting better, before F.P.’s sudden disappearance. 

Fred Andrews watches from the porch as F.P. digs around in the glove compartment for a brown paper lunch bag, which he hands to Betty with the directive to give it to her sister. 

“I can’t believe Polly was involved in _drugs_ ,” she says, more to herself than anyone else. 

“She wasn’t,” F.P. says. “Blossom kid never mentioned who his girl was, but us snakes, we’ve got eyes and ears. Reckon they were pretty serious. You wanted to know what was sewn into the jacket?” He nods towards the bag, then adds, “Don’t open it outside,” when Betty starts to reach in. 

Betty pauses, licks her lips, and says, “I should go home, I guess.” She keeps her eyes locked on Jughead’s, as though to ask whether or not he wants her to leave him alone with his father. 

He does not.

“I’ll walk you home in a minute,” he tells her, like they don’t all know the distance between here and there is only about forty-five feet. 

There’s a bit of a stare-off between Jughead and his father, during which F.P. seems poised to put up a fuss. Instead, he takes the few steps forward necessary to close the distance between them, and wraps Jughead in a hug, complete with the annoying fist-pounding on the back that keeps it from ever feeling too intimate. 

He takes a deep, jagged breath in, filling his nostrils with the familiar scents of old cigarette smoke and older beer. 

“Love you, kid,” F.P. growls, low enough to keep Betty from hearing. “Don’t forget that.” 

A faint ringing in Jughead’s ears comes to accompany the pounding in his brain.

  
  
  


He walks Betty home after the truck has disappeared into the night. They kiss softly on her doorstep, and she takes off his suit jacket and hands it back. 

“Are you going to be okay tonight, Jug?” she asks, rubbing the goosebumps that have suddenly appeared on her arms. 

“Yeah,” he mutters. What other choice does he have? “Are you?” 

With her lower lip sucked between her teeth and her eyes full of concern, she nods. “I’m going to write everything down, maybe make some notes on what we need to follow up on. I think we should try and figure out where the Serpents are getting the drugs they’re distributing, first of all. And…” 

“And?” Jughead prompts, when she doesn’t continue. 

“I love you,” she says, blinking slowly at him through her impossibly long lashes.

Jughead’s heart feels like tinfoil crumpling into a tiny, jagged ball as he repeats the words, words he couldn’t say to his own father. “I love you too,” he tells her. “So much.”

  
  
  


Fred Andrews is still waiting on the porch when Jughead trudges back over. His flannel shirt is unbuttoned, and he holds a beer bottle in one hand. Archie’s with him now, clad in pajamas, halfway through a soda. He passes another open soda bottle to Jughead, who doesn’t want one but accepts it anyway before collapsing in the lone empty chair across from Archie and Fred. The two of them regard him with identical expressions, some combination of concern and pity.

Archie’s holding his soda bottle the exact same way Fred’s holding his beer bottle. As Jughead clocks the similarity, he also clocks that he’s holding _his_ bottle exactly the same way F.P. would. This realization ups the nausea that never went away. He sets the open bottle on the ground without drinking from it and stands up, suddenly tired of playing at grown-up. 

“I’m going to bed,” he announces. 

“Jug,” says Fred, gesturing at the chair Jughead’s just vacated. “Sit.” 

He sits again. 

“Son, will you give us a minute?” 

Archie looks startled, and his eyes dart from his father to Jughead and back again before he says “Okay, sure,” and goes into the house. 

“I don’t know what to tell you about your dad,” Fred sighs, after the door clicks shut behind Archie. “I’ve known him a long time. He always means well. He always starts off trying to do the right thing. He just…” 

“Has no idea what the right thing is?” 

“He struggles with the follow-through.” Fred shifts in his seat, crossing one ankle over the other knee. “Always has. I’ll admit, I have no idea what’s going on with him right now. Guessing he went back to the Serpents?” 

Jughead nods, which causes Fred to sigh again. He stares into space for a bit, shaking his head. 

“Well,” he says, “shit. How long ago?” 

“I don’t know. A few years, at least. He tried to keep it hidden from me for a while. From us,” he adds, although whether his father ever tried to keep his gang activity hidden from his mother is anyone’s guess. 

Only one of the front porch lights is switched on, and in the dim shadows it casts, Fred Andrews appears older than Jughead can ever remember seeing him look before. 

“What did he tell you?” Jughead asks, although he’s still not sure he wants to know. “What were you talking about before we got here?” 

“Nothing much, to be honest. He asked how you’d been, how school was going.” Fred takes a pull of his beer, then twists the bottle around in his hands before looking back up. “Said he had some business to attend to out of town. Wouldn’t tell me what it was, though. Not that I pushed too hard.” 

Jughead nods again. 

“It’s too much on you, Jug,” Fred says quietly. Then he climbs to his feet, wiping his empty hand on the thigh of his jeans. 

For lack of a better response, Jughead stands up too. 

“Archie said you’d be starting a new job tomorrow. That’s good. I’m proud of you.” 

Jughead doesn’t bother mentioning that the job is at the _Register_ , and he’s pretty sure he only has it because his girlfriend’s mother wants to keep an eye on him. 

“I’ll have Archie help me clean out Mary’s old office a little this weekend,” Fred continues, now with his hand on the doorknob. “Been using it for storage, mostly. Might have to leave a few boxes in there, but at least it’ll give you a little more privacy.” 

“You don’t have to. I’ll start looking for somewhere else to stay,” Jughead says, although with the Twilight destroyed, he has precisely no ideas as to where _somewhere else_ might be. 

“Jughead.” Fred’s hand twitches on the knob, sun-damaged skin shifting over knucklebones, and Jughead can tell he’s closely considering what he’s about to say next. “One of your father’s worst qualities has always been that he’s too proud to accept help when it’s offered. He’s always made everything harder for himself that way. You don’t have to do the same.” 

He pushes the door open, then gestures inside. 

“We want you here, okay?” he says. “You’re not an imposition. You’re a kid who’s been dealt a really shitty hand.” 

Jughead nods and steps inside.

  
  
  


“What did my dad want to talk to you about?” Archie asks, after they’ve turned out all the lights. “Was it cleaning out the office for you?” 

“Yeah,” Jughead replies, preferring this simple explanation over the more complex truth. “Looks like I might be here a while.” 

“Cool.” Archie shifts in bed, rolling away from Jughead—and then, almost immediately, he rolls back. “I’m sorry about your dad, Jughead. Whatever’s going on with him.” 

Jughead takes a deep breath and lets it out, thankful that the lights are off. The tears that have been building steadily behind his eyeballs since Fred delivered the words _I’m proud of you_ are finally threatening to breach the dam. 

“Yeah,” he says, willing his voice not to shake. “It all kind of sucks.” 

He’s sure Archie hears him sniffle, sure that if Archie looked over he’d be able to see, even in just the neon glow of his digital clock, the rapidly growing wet spot on Jughead’s pillow, and for a moment he’s sure Archie is going to ask him what’s wrong, a question Jughead thinks he might never in his whole life be able to answer. 

But Archie remains silent until a gentle snore tells Jughead that his friend has fallen asleep.

  
  
  


* * * * *

  
  
  


Once she’s home and safely in her room, her pink dress exchanged for her comfiest pajamas, Betty sits cross-legged on her bed and reaches into the brown paper lunch bag Jughead’s father gave her.

She pulls out a small cardboard box, the kind you’d put jewelry in, and grimaces; the box, like Jason’s jacket, is covered in dried blood. Finding rubber gloves at this hour seems like overkill, though, so she just slides a fingernail under the Scotch tape holding the lid down and opens the box. 

Inside the box is a bunch of folded tissue paper. Inside the tissue paper is an antique gold ring with an ornately filigreed band and a large, brilliant diamond flanked by small rubies. Assuming the gems are real—and since it appears to be a Blossom family heirloom, she has no reason to think they wouldn’t be—the ring must be worth a small fortune. If that’s the case, and if Jason was so desperate for money that he turned to running drugs for the Serpents, why didn’t he sell it? 

She thinks she can guess the answer. 

The ring looks very much like an an engagement ring. Polly hadn’t mentioned an engagement, but then, Jason might not have proposed before he died. The thought makes her overwhelmingly sad, even as she cringes a little at the idea of Polly and Jason getting _married_. 

(Baby, she reminds herself. Polly is having Jason’s baby.) 

Feeling very much as though she’s doing something she shouldn’t, as though she is in some way betraying her sister, Betty slips the ring on to the fourth finger of her right hand; trying it on her left hand would definitely be too much. 

It fits her perfectly, which means it should fit Polly perfectly, too.

She takes the ring off, and for lack of anything better to do with it, puts it back in the bloody little cardboard box. She hides the box in the cushion of her window seat. Then she goes into the bathroom to wash her hands. 

Another thought occurs to her as she’s rinsing the soap away. If the ring is worth a small fortune, and if Jughead’s dad is a criminal anyway, then why didn’t he just sell it and keep the money for himself?

“None of it makes any sense,” she tells her reflection. Predictably, her reflection does not answer.

  
  
  


Hours later, a door opens downstairs. It’s just loud enough to rouse Betty from sleep; she wakes in terror, sitting up and gasping until she hears the telltale click of heels on hardwood and realizes it’s not a murderer, but her mother returning home. She glances at the clock beside her bed and discovers it’s just after three in the morning. A legal pad lays in bed next to her. The first half of the page contains thoughts about what Jughead’s father told them; the last few lines are all nonsensical scribbles. Her bedside lamp is on. It does not take a Nancy Drew level of deductive reasoning to figure out she fell asleep working. 

Of course she did. She hadn’t been able to bear the thought of _trying_ to go to sleep, not when every time she so much as blinked, Jason’s corpse floated before her eyes. 

She barely has time to shove the legal pad under her blankets before her mother opens her bedroom door.

“You’re still awake?” Alice seems surprisingly chipper for three in the morning, and with a gentle swish of disappointment, Betty recognizes the high of a good scoop. She wonders what her mother found out. She wonders if it’s okay for her to wish she had the kind of mother who would still climb into her bed and hold her until she felt safe again. 

“I woke up when I heard the door,” Betty says, shoving the childish thought to the back of her mind. “How was, uh…” 

“We’ll talk about it later. Tell that boyfriend of yours I’ll be expecting him at the office before ten. Actually, tell him to come over for breakfast, if you like. He may as well ride over with me.” 

“I’m not telling him _now_ ,” Betty says, when her mother seems confused as to why Betty isn’t immediately texting. “He’s got to be asleep.” 

Alice _tuts_. “A great story waits for no man or woman.” 

“You’re really going to work tomorrow?” 

“Well, your father’s not here, so yes. What else would I do?” 

“Um,” Betty says. “Go to the Sisters of Quiet Mercy?” When Alice merely blinks, Betty adds, “Mom, we have to tell Polly. We can’t just leave her in the dark on this.” 

“What is there to tell her? All we know for certain is that Jason is dead.” 

“That seems like enough,” Betty says. “Jason was her boyfriend, and the father of her child, and she thinks he’s still alive!” 

“I’m not fighting about this now, Elizabeth. It’s late, we’re both tired. And I’m not telling Polly anything until we have more information than ‘someone put a bullet through your boyfriend’s skull.’” She rolls her eyes at Betty’s involuntary flinch, and then says, “Go back to bed. Sleep well,” as though this is a reasonable expectation. 

Betty goes back to sleep, but she doesn’t sleep well. Even snuggled against her boyfriend-replacement pillow, she tosses and turns for the rest of the night, and around eight, gives up on sleep entirely. A glance across to Archie’s window tells her that the boys are up too, so she texts Jughead, who shows up twenty minutes later looking like he’s slept even less than she has. By the time he arrives, Betty and her mother have managed two more arguments about telling Polly. 

A day of work will do both her and Jughead good, she thinks, even if they’re not working together. 

“Find out anything you can,” she whispers to him, while her mother stands guard over both the waffle iron and a skillet full of scrambled eggs. 

“Aren’t you coming?” He looks a little apprehensive when Betty shakes her head _no_. 

“Mom wants me to get all my homework done today,” she says, still feeling glum about the command to stay home. “And she wants me to do it here. I think she thinks we’ll distract each other if I’m at the _Register_.” 

Jughead regards her through a sip of orange juice, then swallows and says, “We’re not animals.”

She _is_ desperate to get him totally, completely alone, though, if only so she can tell him about what was in the paper bag his father gave her. 

“Once I get it done, I’m going to head over,” Betty says. “She’s crazy if she thinks anything’s going to keep me away from the action all day.”

  
  
  


But before Betty can find the action, it finds her. It arrives in the shape of Cheryl Blossom, who shows up on Betty’s doorstep not an hour after her mother and Jughead have left. She has spent very little of that time doing homework, and most of it fuming over the various nuns at the Sisters of Quiet Mercy, who are refusing to let Polly come to the telephone. 

“I was going to call you later,” Betty says, after she’s opened the door and registered that, yes, Cheryl really is here, clad in a black silk blouse and black, wide-legged, high-waisted trousers that make her look like she’s come straight out of a 1930s crime movie. The vintage red convertible that the twins shared really is parked in front of her house right now. 

“Of course you were.” Cheryl’s expression is indecipherable, hidden as it is behind enormous black sunglasses, but her voice is steady as she pushes right past Betty and into the living room, where she drapes herself elegantly in an armchair. “Betty Cooper, never missing an opportunity to suck up.” 

“Not to suck up,” Betty protests. “I wanted to know how you were doing. After…last night.” 

“I’ve been better, thank you,” Cheryl says bluntly. She removes the sunglasses to reveal her face is free of makeup—well, aside from her usual lipstick. “You need to talk.” 

“Yes,” Betty agrees. “We need to—”

“Not we. _You_. I’ve suspected for a long time now that you know more about your crazy sister and her whereabouts than you’ve been letting on. So sing, awkward bird.” 

“Or else what?” 

“Or else I ruin you,” Cheryl replies, but there’s so little fire in her response that Betty isn’t the least bit intimidated. 

And just like that, all the pieces that have been whirling in Betty’s mind—some of them for months, like how oddly Cheryl had acted with Jughead way back in July—fall into place. She can almost hear a _click_. 

“You didn’t believe Jason was dead until last night, did you?” She feels a little bad, reminding Cheryl of that (as though she would need reminding), but the expression on Cheryl’s face tells her she’s right, and she decides to press on. “You’ve been trying to make me tell you about Polly for a very long time now. You thought the plan to fake his death worked, and they ran away together.” 

“So you _do_ know where your sister is,” Cheryl counters. “Well, Betty, it appears we’ve reached a crossroads. From this point forwards, we’re either allies or enemies.” 

Standing there in her living room with her arms folded across her chest, Betty looks down at the girl who’s done nothing but torment her since she got to high school and realizes, for the first time in their lives, that she holds a certain power. She feels taller than Cheryl—not just because she currently stands while Cheryl sits, and not just because she is literally taller than Cheryl (though Cheryl’s fondness for platform heels does tend to nullify that). She knows something that Cheryl does not, and that knowledge—the truth—is her power. 

She also realizes she cannot, in good conscience, use it. She cannot torment Cheryl, not when all her power has to do with Jason, whom she knows is the person Cheryl loved most in the world. Not when she’d spent the summer wondering if she would ever see her sister again. It doesn’t take much imagination to get from there to imagining Polly gone forever. 

There is also the fact that Cheryl has something Betty does not. Cheryl Blossom has a car. 

“Allies,” Betty says, firmly. “I’ll make a deal with you. You tell me everything you know, and I’ll take you to Polly right now.”

  
  
  


Minutes later, they’re on the road, Betty sneaking the occasional surreptitious glance at the GPS app on her phone—she’s decided to trust Cheryl, but she’s still not ready to tell her exactly where they’re going. 

“Over the past year, Daddy started grooming Jason in the ways of the family business,” Cheryl says. The sunglasses are back on, so Betty can’t quite read her expression, but she seems calm and focused as she drives. “Jason was the heir and favorite child, you know. Blossom Maple Farms has always been passed from father to son, and apparently that holds true even when there’s a daughter with naturally greater business acumen.” 

“Were you jealous of him, then?” 

Cheryl _tuts_. “There was precious little to be jealous of, in that regard. He may have been our parents’ favorite, but he wasn’t happy about it. Jason never wanted to take over the maple farm, and he hated every minute he spent alone with Daddy, learning the ropes. He frequently petitioned to have me put into his place. Alas, it was all to no avail.” 

“Why did Jason hate it so much?” 

“He wouldn’t tell me,” she says. “He changed after he started hooking up with your blonde beast of a sister, you know. Started confiding in her instead of me. Until they broke up at the end of the school year.” 

“Jason told you they broke up?” Betty shakes her head. “No, they didn’t. Not for real.” 

“I know that _now_ , obviously. I realized the breakup was a ruse as soon as Polly disappeared at the same time he did. I thought they must have run off together. He must have surmised—correctly, I might add—that I wouldn’t have helped him fake his own death, had I known that to be the case.” 

“That was the plan,” Betty admits. “For them to run off together. But my parents got to Polly first. When did you last see him?” 

“The Fourth of July, of course. We staged the boat accident. He was safe on the other side of the bank. We said our goodbyes, and he disappeared into the trees.” She sighs. “Jason was supposed to contact me once he was safe. He said it might take a few weeks to get settled and find a way to do it safely. But I never heard from him at all, and eventually, I started to worry.” 

“That was why you started spreading those rumors about Polly, wasn’t it?” 

Cheryl nods. “I knew one or the other of them must be keeping an eye on this dreary little hamlet. Jason wouldn’t abandon me completely, or so I thought, and so I also thought Polly wouldn’t abandon _you_. She made a remark once, at River Vixens practice, that your parents were threatening to put her into the looney bin. I assumed a public announcement that she was crazy would provoke someone into revealing her whereabouts, but your parents resisted the bait.” 

“What do you know about Jason’s getaway plan?” 

“Precious little,” Cheryl sighs. “Only that he’d made one. He was remarkably good at keeping his lips sealed, you know, when he wanted to be. He claimed it was safer for me not to know.” 

“I can’t imagine you let him get away with that.” 

“I certainly didn’t take it lying down. I threw hysterical tantrums that would rival Joan Crawford’s, Betty. I ransacked his bedroom after he disappeared. I went through every file on his computer, every potentially sordid corner of his browser history. Nothing. He wiped his trail completely clean.” 

“And what about the gunshot?” 

“Gunshot?” Cheryl shakes her head a little. “You’ve conducted a better investigation than I was prepared to give you credit for. The sheriff doesn’t even know about that, so far as I’m aware. Yes, there was a gunshot that morning. But Jason and I were together in the boat when we heard it.” 

The next twenty minutes or so pass in silence, save for the occasional slurp of cherry cola through Cheryl’s red straw. Betty props her elbow on the arm rest and leans her head into her hand, trying hard to think and not entirely certain what she ought to be thinking about. Mainly, she wonders how they ought to break the news to Polly. 

She can’t think of any way to do it…nicely. Probably because there isn’t one.

She wishes, absently, that she too had a soda. 

Her phone rings. “Veronica,” she says, in response to Cheryl’s questioning eyebrow. She doesn’t answer, instead sending the call straight to voicemail and texting Veronica that she’ll call back later. 

_Just checking in_ , Veronica replies. _Cheryl’s not answering her phone either. Have you heard from her?_

“She says she’s been trying to get in touch with you.” 

It’s hard to tell, since most of Cheryl’s face is covered with those gigantic sunglasses, but she’s pretty sure Cheryl’s expression softens. “That’s sweet of Ronnie. Tell her I appreciate the concern and I’m as well as can be expected, under the circumstances.” 

Betty dutifully types and sends this message to Veronica, then slips her phone back into her purse. “Cheryl, can I ask you a question?” 

“It seems to me you’ve been asking many questions,” Cheryl sighs. “I suppose one more won’t make much of a difference.” 

“Did I only make the River Vixens because you wanted to keep me close so you could spy on me?” 

There’s a pause—not a particularly long one, but enough of one to make Betty’s nerves pick up speed.

“I’m honestly insulted,” Cheryl says quietly, “that you would impugn the good name of the River Vixens that way. I would never, _ever_ allow anyone on the squad if they couldn’t pass muster.” 

A sting comes to the edge of Betty’s thumb, and she realizes she’s been picking at a small hangnail. 

“Okay,” she says, unsure whether or not to believe her new ally. “Okay.”

  
  
  


* * * * *

  
  
  


The bad news about Jughead’s first day as a _Register_ employee falling on the day after Jason Blossom’s body was discovered is that his boss, who also happens to be his girlfriend’s mother, has left him alone in the office with very little to do while she checks in with Sheriff Keller and the county coroner.

He supposes this is also good news. Mrs. Cooper left him with a very short list of tasks to accomplish: proofread this week’s classifieds, organize the day’s mail, and sweep the floors. He’d finished all of that within an hour of her departure. 

A more responsible person would undoubtedly make a start on his homework, but Jughead is not currently that person. He sends Betty a text asking what she’s up to (which he infuses with a distinct but unspoken hope that she might be willing to bring a better lunch than the one he packed) and then turns his attention to the _Register_ ’s back room, which doesn’t look like it’s been touched in decades. 

_Plausible deniability_ , he thinks, imagining the look on Alice Cooper’s face if she happened to catch him doing anything that might be rightfully be described as snooping. He needs plausible deniability. 

What would Betty do? 

Betty, he decides, would actually start organizing the back room, and so he collects the broom, a roll of paper towels, and a very old can of Lemon Pledge he finds under the sink in the kitchenette. Then he stands in the doorway, broom tucked under his arm, feeling a bit like Indiana Jones. 

It hasn’t been very long since Jughead reviewed all the evidence they had on the Blossom/Cooper feud; he’d skimmed over it all again as they were setting up the murder board in the _Blue and Gold_. He mentally reviews it again now. 

They know William Blossom disappeared, presumed drowned in Sweetwater River, in the 1920s. The Blossoms were almost certainly bootlegging alcohol during Prohibition. Profits were obviously down after Prohibition ended, and Betty’s great-grandfather, William Cooper, bought into the company in 1935. They know Betty’s great-grandfather was murdered by Cheryl and Jason’s great-grandfather in 1942, though it was declared self-defense, and they know that not too long after, her great-grandfather’s brother resuscitated the _Register_. 

“Tell me your secrets,” he says to the room at large, as though that’s going to make any sort of difference in what he does or doesn’t find. 

Then he grabs the nearest box and gets to work.

  
  
  


* * * * *

  
  
  


“Turn left in 500 feet,” announces the GPS out of nowhere, and Betty jolts upright. She’s been contemplating Jughead’s hint that he didn’t pack enough lunch, and wondering if it’s safe to respond; she wouldn’t put it past her mother to have placed Jughead’s phone under her own personal observation if she caught him using it.

“That’s the road that leads to the old nunnery.” Cheryl’s voice is laden with suspicion. “Elizabeth Cooper, have you been withholding information from me?” 

Betty considers her options, then sighs in resignation. The pregnancy is _visible_ , after all; Cheryl’s going to know the minute she lays eyes on Polly. Assuming the nuns let them past the front door, of course. 

“Polly’s pregnant,” she sighs. 

“ _What?_ ” Cheryl screeches, as the entire car swerves violently across the center stripe. 

“The baby is Jason’s. He knew. My parents, they—well, that’s why Polly and Jason were trying to run away. But my parents got Polly to go there instead.” 

“My god,” Cheryl says. “My future niece or nephew, incubated in a Gothic horror show like that. Is it as bad as Nana Rose’s old stories make it out to be?” 

“I haven’t heard your nana’s stories, but it’s pretty bad.” Betty can’t help but wonder what goes on in Nana Rose’s stories, though; Thornhill, Cheryl’s home, is such a Gothic horror show itself. “I’ve only visited a couple of times, though.” 

“And you let your sister languish there all summer?” 

“No,” Betty says, feeling a sting. “ _No_. My parents didn’t tell me where she was. It took me months to track her down.” 

They ride in silence until Cheryl pulls into the half-paved parking lot, switches off the engine, and turns to Betty with sunglasses lifted. 

“How are you going to break the news?” 

Betty tightens her ponytail. “I just am.”

  
  
  


Of course, it turns out to be not so simple as that. The nun at the front desk directs Betty to the back gardens, but won’t let Cheryl, who’s not on the visitor registry, past reception. 

“I’ll try to…bring Polly to you, I guess?” Betty mutters in Cheryl’s ear, though she has no idea how she’s supposed to accomplish such a thing. 

Arms folded across her chest, Cheryl lifts an eyebrow over the frame of her sunglasses. “Perhaps I’ll wait in the car,” she says. “I’ll put the top down. God only knows I could use the Vitamin D infusion.” 

Betty follows the sister through labyrinthine halls until they emerge into a surprisingly pleasant garden, wide green pathways flanked by rose bushes and hedges. 

“Polly is here,” says the sister, offering no more assistance before she disappears back into the cold stone building. 

Betty takes a deep breath and surveys the garden. There are only so many girls wandering around—not very many at all, really, but still more than she would have expected. Even though they’re all dressed alike, in those horrible blue pinafores and red cardigans, Polly is easy to spot; she’s in a distant corner by herself, and she’s by far the blondest of the unwed teenage mothers-to-be. 

Her face lights up when Betty approaches, and Betty’s heart sinks. “Hi!” she cries, smiling broadly. “I was hoping you’d come see us this weekend.” 

Betty swallows, taking in her sister. Polly’s stomach is bigger than the last time Betty saw her, but her face looks thinner, her complexion duller. 

The decision is made before Betty even realizes she has one _to_ make. 

“I’m not just here to see you,” she tells Polly. “I’m here to bust you out.”

  
  
  


The girls quickly formulate a plan—or rather, Polly claims to have thought of one already. It involves them finding a quiet corner of the garden, swapping clothes in secret, and Polly escaping through the front entrance in disguise. 

It is not the best plan Betty’s ever heard. 

“Pol, you realize that’s not going to work, right?” She ticks off the reasons why not on on her fingers: “The nuns know your face. I don’t think you’re going to fit in my jeans right now. And besides, that leaves _me_ stuck in the rose garden.” 

“Well,” Polly says thoughtfully, “I found a hole in the fence in the very back last week. We could just make a break for it.” 

Betty can’t think of anything better, and so, they start walking. She pulls her phone out and quickly texts Cheryl: _Start the car. Pull as far around to the west side of the property as you can._

Three dots materialize at once, followed by _This is hardly an inconspicuous getaway vehicle, Betty._

“I hate when Cheryl has a point,” she mutters to herself. It’s the best they’ve got, though. 

Polly looks over her shoulder. “Hmm?” 

“Nothing,” she says. “Let’s keep going.” 

“Don’t walk so fast, Betty. The nuns will get suspicious.”

They take turns keeping an eye on the nun who is most definitely keeping an eye on them, right up until they get to the edge of the rose garden—at which point Polly halts, takes a deep breath, and looks Betty straight in the eye. 

“This is it,” she says. “Get ready to run.” 

“Wait, Pol— _can_ you even run?” 

“I’m sure I’m faster than an old lady in orthopedic shoes,” Polly says, and then she takes off. 

Betty glances over her shoulder for just long enough to confirm that the nun has indeed noticed. “She’s raising the alarm!” 

“Of course she is!” cries Polly. “Come on, Betty, let’s go!” 

She follows her sister into the bushes.

  
  
  


It takes only a few heart-pounding minutes of crashing through shrubs and thorns before they get to the hole in the chain-link fence. It’s not a very _big_ hole, but Polly manages to shimmy through it, and Betty quickly follows. 

“Are we safe?” she calls. “Now that we’re off the property?”

“No, I’m sure they’ll still follow us.” Polly sounds a little winded, but she seems to be going strong otherwise. “Where am I going from here?” 

“Left. Towards the road.” This is, unfortunately, also towards the main building. “Look for—” 

“Halt. Halt!” yells a male voice. Betty turns to see several young, athletic-looking orderlies closing in on them. _Crap_ , Betty thinks; she forgot about them. A small wave of nuns follows the orderlies, moving slower than the orderlies but gaining on them nevertheless; they’re all running on flat ground, whereas Betty and Polly are still contending with rocks and trees and ditches. 

“Jason’s car!” Polly shrieks gleefully, as the convertible swings into view. 

“Run!” Betty cries. 

They run. 

In the end, it’s not _that_ close. There are still a good fifty feet between them and the orderlies when Cheryl brings the car to a halt, which is plenty of time for them to tumble into the backseat. Cheryl’s already taking off again by the time Betty pulls the door shut behind her. But she’s still shaking with adrenaline as they careen down the old state route back to Riverdale. 

“This is exciting,” says Polly, who seems winded but otherwise okay as she and Betty buckle their seat belts. “Hi, Cheryl! Thanks for coming to rescue me. How long before we get to where Jason’s hiding? I have so much to tell him.” 

In the rearview mirror, Betty sees Cheryl lift her sunglasses; the two of them make eye contact in the reflection. 

“Elizabeth,” says Cheryl.

Betty swallows. “I didn’t tell her yet.” 

Polly beams at both of them. “Tell me what?”

  
  
  


When they’re sufficiently far away and have made enough turns that they’re satisfied no one from the Sisters of Quiet Mercy will pull up behind them, Cheryl pulls over. Together, they tell Polly. 

She collapses in Betty’s arms, and cries all the way back to Riverdale. 

“I blame them, you know,” she says, sniffling as they pass the _Welcome to Riverdale_ sign. “Mom and Dad. If they weren’t so weird about me dating Jason in the first place, we wouldn’t have had to run.” 

“Cheryl, why do our parents still hate each other so much?” Betty asks. “The blood feud started three generations ago. Shouldn’t we be over it by now?” 

Cheryl scoffs. “Have you met my parents? There’s not a soul in this town my mother doesn’t hold a grudge against. And I hardly think _your_ parents are any more forgiving.” 

“Dad’s just awful,” sniffles Polly. “He’s still trying to convince me to give the baby up. Even when he came to visit me yesterday, he was—” 

A strange ringing breaks out in Betty’s ears. “Wait. Yesterday? You saw Dad _yesterday_?” 

Polly nods. “Why?” 

“Mom told me he was still in Florida,” Betty says blankly. “Why would she lie about that?” 

“Why do any of our parents do anything?” Cheryl sounds bored by her own question, and Betty supposes a return to boredom is a good thing. It feels more normal, anyway. 

“So, wait. Does that mean he’s not staying at home?” Polly looks pleased at this news. “Good. I wouldn’t stay there if he was.” 

“Where else would you have gone?” Betty wonders aloud. 

“Thornhill, of course. Cheryl would keep me. That’s what Jason would have wanted.” 

“And you’d be welcome there if it were just me,” Cheryl says. “But I don’t think we should tell Mummy and Daddy just yet.” 

Betty wants to ask why. But Polly, nodding, breaks into tears again, and so she holds her tongue. None of them speak again until they pull up in front of the big, white house and Polly, her eyes still glassy with tears, sighs, “It looks just as I remember it.” 

_You only left two months ago_ , Betty thinks, tilting her head to the side. 

“Betty,” Cheryl says quietly, once Polly’s wandered up towards the front door. “I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but—” She nods in Polly’s direction. “We’re connected by blood now, you and me.”

Betty nods. “I suppose we are.” 

“Our girl doesn’t look so hot,” Cheryl adds. “I shudder to think what kind of substandard prenatal care she must have been receiving in that hotbed of religious Ratcheds. Get her to a doctor, stat, and call me if you require assistance in so doing.” 

“Thanks, Cheryl. And thank you for coming with me to get her.” 

Cheryl waves dismissively. “I suppose it’s better if I don’t stick around.” 

“Probably,” Betty agrees; she knows Cheryl’s fishing for an invitation to stay, and she _deserves_ one, but—well, but who knows. 

“Betty,” calls Polly, from the stoop, “I don’t have my keys.” 

“I’ll be in touch,” Betty promises, and she runs up to let her sister into their home.

  
  
  


By now it’s well after lunchtime; they make sandwiches and eat in the kitchen, not bothering to sit down, while Polly’s mood fluctuates wildly between happiness at being sprung from the Sisters of Quiet Mercy and despair over Jason’s death. 

“Why don’t you take a shower?” Betty suggests, after Polly’s wrapped her greasy hair around her fingers so many times that the curl ceases unwinding. “I’ll look for some clothes that might fit you, and then I’ll clean up here.” 

Polly nods; they both go upstairs. 

“My room looks just how I left it, too” Polly says fondly, and Betty tries to keep her smile innocent; even if she was doing it for Polly’s own good, she doesn’t want her sister to know she was snooping. “Dustier, though. But it’s still cleaner than my room with the Sisters.” 

“Polly,” Betty says, cautiously. “I have something for you. Something Jason left with—with the person he was getting the car from. It got delivered to me.” 

If Polly finds this information at all suspicious, she doesn’t let on. She simply waits as Betty goes to her own room and retrieves the ring, opting to bring only the bloodless tissue paper to her sister. 

“Oh,” she says in a soft voice, as though she knows exactly what’s inside the little bundle of tissue paper. “He got it.” 

“You know what it is?” 

Polly nods as she unwraps the tissue. “It’s Nana Rose’s engagement ring. She promised it to me and Jason.” 

“Cheryl and Jason’s grandmother knew?” 

“Of course she did. Nana Rose adored me. She’s mostly senile, though,” Polly adds. “She couldn’t really do anything to help us. But his whole life, she always told Jason she wanted him to propose with this ring.” 

She slips it on the appropriate ring finger, and just as Betty had predicted to herself, it fits perfectly. 

“I’ll wear it forever,” Polly declares, before breaking out in a fresh wave of tears.

  
  
  


Once she’s finally gotten Polly into the shower, the first thing Betty does is lock herself in her bedroom to call her boyfriend, who’s texted again to say she should do exactly that when she can. 

He picks up on the first ring. “Betty,” he says, sounding uncharacteristically excited. “Have you ever been through the papers in the back room here?” 

“No,” she says blankly. “Jug, is my mom there?” 

“She left for the coroner’s office hours ago. She hasn’t come back yet. Do you remember over the summer, when we realized the original missing Blossom twin and your great-grandfather shared a name? And that we couldn’t find any information on your great-grandfather before the 1930s?” 

“William,” she says. “But that’s got to be a coincidence. It’s too common of a name, it’s—” 

“They’re the _same person_ ,” Jughead says, breathlessly. “I found his diary. William’s. He wasn’t William Cooper, Betty, he was _William Blossom_. He faked his own death, went to Canada, and changed his name. That’s why there were no records. Why they never found the body.” 

Upstairs, Polly starts the shower running. Polly. Polly, who’s pregnant with Jason Blossom’s baby. 

“Are you sure?” Betty feels suddenly lightheaded, and barely makes it to her bed before her legs give out. “You’re absolutely sure? I’m a _Blossom_?” 

“Unless somebody went to the trouble of making a very convincing fake diary from the 1930s, yeah.” 

“Oh, my god,” she whispers. “Oh, my _god_. Does anyone in my family even know?” Her parents. Her parents must, at least; knowing they were related would explain so much about their behavior towards Jason, and how much they’d hated Polly dating him. 

“No idea,” Jughead says. “I’m sneaking the diary out of here, though. I’ll bring it over to you tonight.” 

“Okay,” Betty says, faintly. “If I’m still alive by then.” 

“Unless you want to come by the _Register_ , of course. Did you finish your homework?” 

Betty lets out such a sudden, loud laugh that it startles even her. “Juggie,” she says, “I think I might actually have had a more eventful day than you did.”

  
  
  


* * * * *

  
  
  


Jughead is still reeling from his conversation with Betty when Betty’s mother returns to the newspaper office, looking (as she so often does) like the proverbial cat that just caught the canary.

“As I suspected,” she says, apparently pleased to have a captive audience, “Jason Blossom was _not_ murdered where his body was found. The coroner estimates that he died only a few days after July Fourth, and his body was only moved yesterday.” 

She watches Jughead closely for a reaction, and seems pleased when he lifts his eyebrows. 

“And it _was_ a murder, by the way. That gunshot wound to the forehead has been confirmed as the cause of death.” 

“That’s not much of a surprise, is it?” he ventures. 

“Surprise, no. Still a scoop for the _Register_ , yes.” 

“So…” It might be risky to ask, but she seems to be in the mood to talk. “If Jason died two months ago, how come his body wasn’t more...” 

“Frozen,” Alice says, almost gleefully. “The corpse had been kept in a deep freezer. The sheriff’s men are out checking all the known storage freezers in the county as we speak. Of course, they may never find the offending one; it’s not as though there’s a county registry of very large freezers.” 

_Fuck_ , Jughead thinks to himself. He was never a fan of Jason, but whatever the kid’s faults—however much of a bully he’d occasionally been—he didn’t deserve _that_ fate. No one did. 

She looks around the office, nodding in satisfaction when everything proves to be more or less where she left it, and not destroyed. “You’ve accomplished all your tasks for the day? Good. I won’t keep you here longer, Jughead. You’re free to go. Tell Betty I won’t be home for dinner tonight.” 

“Okay,” he says. 

“In fact, why don’t the two of your order in tonight,” she says, her shit-eating grin slipping somewhat. “Betty did seem _affected_ by seeing the corpse. I’m sure she could use some company.” 

He can’t decide whether or not he wants to be in the Cooper house when Alice finds out that Betty broke Polly out of the convent. But he does, of course, want to eat pizza with Betty. 

(Polly, less so. But if she’s in the mood to answer questions…) 

“Here,” Alice says, flinging a twenty-dollar bill across the desk at him. “That won’t come out of your paycheck, don’t worry. Just—” She points a warning finger at him. “Don’t get up to any monkey business.” 

“No,” Jughead says, unsure of how else to react. Is he being paid to date his own girlfriend now? “Uh, thank you.” 

Betty’s mother is already halfway across the office. “And come back after school on Monday,” she calls over her shoulder. 

Jughead leaves the _Register_ with the diary of William Cooper, _née_ Blossom, burning a hole in his messenger bag.

  
  
  


“Got the diary,” he says, when Betty opens the front door to let him in. “And twenty bucks from your mom. She says we should order a pizza.” 

Betty stretches up to kiss him. “You didn’t tell her about Polly, did you?” 

“Of course not.” He looks over her shoulder at the front entry, which is empty. “How is Polly?” 

“Sleeping,” Betty says. She looks exhausted herself. “Devastated, obviously, although I still have no idea how she believed Jason was still alive and coming for her after all that time.” 

They trudge upstairs to Betty’s bedroom, leaving the door open behind them despite there being no parent home to make sure they’ve done so, and plop down on her bed. 

“We don’t have to do this now,” Jughead reminds her, as she flips open the old diary. 

“I do,” Betty insists. “I have to see for myself.” 

She reads through the pages he’s bookmarked, shaking her head in disbelief all the while, and then curls up against him while they talk it through. 

Or, while they start to talk it through. Betty’s asleep mere moments after she closes the front cover of the diary, soft and warm in his arms; even though he’s the one doing the holding, Jughead feels curiously safe like this. 

He’s still tracing his initials on her shoulder half an hour later when Polly walks by the doorway, strange and ethereal in an oversized white nightgown. Whether Betty ever told Polly they were dating, he’s not sure, but Polly doesn’t seem surprised to see him there. 

She smiles at him—Betty’s smile, but not—and continues drifting down the hall.

  
  
  


  
  
  


(to be continued…)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always appreciated, a.k.a. please, please help keep me motivated to keep going on this thing. There's momentum now, right? Right.


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